


Voldemort is Dead. Long Live Voldemort.

by subwaywall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, BAMF Luna Lovegood, Bullying, Developing Relationship, Draco Malfoy & Luna Lovegood Friendship, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, Drarry, Emotional Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Gryffindor, Guilty Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hogwarts, Innocent Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, Luna is the same age as them, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Minor Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Original Character(s), Owls, People normally aren't good at magic, Physical Abuse, Pre-Relationship, Quidditch, Slow Build, Slytherin, Teenagers, Threesome - F/F/M, Unforgivable Curses (Harry Potter), Voldemort Dies, he's still a bully guys, seemingly omniscient luna, slytherins have feelings too, sorta - Freeform, that fact explains a lot of strangeness in canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 37,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subwaywall/pseuds/subwaywall
Summary: It's hard being eleven. It's hard being twelve, thirteen, or fourteen, too, come to think of it. Especially if your father is Lucius Malfoy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Beta/editor: [ByCandlelight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ByCandlelight/pseuds/ByCandlelight)  
> Thanks :)
> 
> This is an alternate universe Harry Potter fic--it's what would happen if Voldemort really died, for good, the night that he killed Harry's parents. 
> 
> Voila.

Eleven-year-old Harry Potter looked at the outstretched hand in front of him. He saw the smile on Draco’s face falter for a moment and without thinking tried to reassure him. 

“I’m Harry,” he said. 

“Harry Potter,” finished Draco. 

“Everyone seems to know that,” Harry replied with a small, confused smile. 

“This is Crabbe, and that’s Goyle,” said Malfoy, drawing himself up. As soon as the two boys came up behind him, the touch of a sneer had returned to his oval face. Harry glanced at the two remarkably large members of Malfoy’s small posse. 

“Um, nice to meet you,” Harry said, involuntarily stepping backwards. “Listen, I think I heard Ron over there mention my name,” he excused himself, gesturing over his scrawny shoulder.

“Potter,” interrupted Malfoy before Harry could leave, “You don’t want to go making friends of the wrong sort. Some families--.” Before Malfoy could finish, Harry darted into the throng of first years, past poor Neville who was holding his enormous toad with both hands, in search of his newfound friend, Ron Weasley. 

Ron was standing awkwardly to the side of the crowd, a sheepish look on his narrow face, his shoulders hunched forward, making himself smaller. He was watching two other boys’ antics and looked like he wanted to join in. 

“Ron,” interrupted Harry. “Nervous?” Ron looked up, ready to reply, but a commotion at the front of the crowd redirected both boys’ attention. It was McGonagall, who had swept back in from the Great Hall, her green robes trailing at her ankles. Her hair was spun into an immaculate bun and she commanded the first years’ respect effortlessly. She said something clearly but too quiet for Harry to hear and turned abruptly the lead the new students into the hall. 

When Hagrid had described Slytherin just as the train had pulled into Hogwarts, Harry’s immediate thought was of the cruelty in Draco’s dark blue eyes when Crabbe and Goyle were around. Yes, Draco would be a Slytherin as he had hoped. But what would Harry be? 

He looked at his peers and saw his own anticipation on their faces. Neville, the toad-boy, what house would he be in ? And Ron? Ron had to be Gryffindor if all his brothers were, right? But he had no idea what to expect as he followed, in single file as per McGonagall’s bidding, the line of first-years into the Great Hall. 

The first-years walked past the crowded tables decorated in brilliant shades of color. Harry recoiled as he glanced at the table of Slytherins. The table was jet black, with silver accents and a green tablecloth, but still failed to be as harsh as the pale lot that sat there. Near the end of the table though, he saw a group of three students smiling and laughing. It perplexed him and he was distracted enough to stumble over the back of Ron’s heels as the group came to an abrupt stop. 

“Sorry,” he said awkwardly, but Ron seemed more focused on what was ahead of them. 

At the front of the room, in a place of honor perched on an ornately carved oaken chair, was a soggy looking hat.


	2. Silver

Chapter 2: Silver   
A girl named Luna was the first catalyst of change. True to her name, she looked moonstruck, hair in untamable waves and eyes perpetually uplifted. She wore a pair of useless glass frames that, on this particular day, she wore pushed up onto her crown, holding back her hair. Much to her classmates’ surprise, this particular day, she was also wearing shoes. 

It was a windy October day, so she very well might have needed them. She had spent all of the afternoon after her classes wandering through the trees by the lake. No one had stopped to ask her what she was doing--they knew her well enough to know that she would answer something unintelligible to anyone but her. 

On this particular day, the first-year Ravenclaw Luna Lovegood took one look at her house’s table and walked past it to sit directly in front of Draco Malfoy, who sat slightly separated from the rest of the Slytherins because his friends had yet to arrive. A look of incredulity passed over his face. 

It might have been how out of place she looked at that table--messy and untroubled at a table of people who sat ruler-straight with meticulously measured expressions. And Draco, with his hair slicked back and his dour expression, could think of little to say. 

He raised a single well-groomed eyebrow and stared. Perhaps if Crabbe or Goyle had been there, he might have reacted more strongly. Instead, he just sneered, “Loony Lovegood. Why don’t you sit with the rest of your house of kiss-up freaks, did you get bored of them?” He emphasized the word freaks in a way that made Luna tilt her head perceptively, but his insult lacked its usual heat. 

“Perhaps we are, actually,” she replied, smiling softly as if she never really had considered it, and that perhaps he had just offered her useful insight. 

“I’m not sure that I know you,” she said. “I know I’ve seen you before. You look a great deal like someone my father knows.” 

“Why are you sitting here,” he asked, more resigned than hostile. 

“I suppose I wanted a change. Everyone sits in the same place every day. I think it’s rather curious,” she replied. 

He looked at her expectantly. She was just as strange as he expected, but somehow he minded less. 

He said more kindly, “Why here, Loony?” 

“It’s Luna, actually,” she corrected, “And I just thought I’d say I understand.”

 

“Understand what?” he asked.   
She opened her mouth to reply, but Crabbe and Goyle slide in beside him and began to pile their plates with food. They didn’t look up enough to realize that she was there. 

“Where’s Pansy?” asked Draco, “She told me we could talk about the Potions project after.” Crabbe shrugged his shoulders and continued eating. 

Luna smiled again and said quietly, “I’d best be going, then,” she said. 

She got up and began walking towards the side entrance to the Hall, and Draco almost stayed seated. 

“Wait,” he called after her, “I haven’t finished talking to you.” He caught up without having to run, and Luna paused to wait for him. 

“What is it?” she asked, as they walked out of the Hall together while others poured in. 

“What were you going to say? What do you understand?” he pushed. 

“I’ve seen how you look at the other boys,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s not easy, but I understand.”

Draco stopped walking. “What?” he demanded. It was not a question. “That’s--what are you talking about?”

“Really, don’t worry,” said Luna, and she didn’t look surprised when Draco turned abruptly and walked into an adjacent corridor. She didn’t follow him. 

He took a shortcut to the hallway that led to the common room. When he reached the portrait, he hesitated. On his way there, he had focused on getting here. But what would he do now? He felt vaguely ill. How dare she. 

It was a terrible thing to be vulnerable alone, but a good deal worse to be vulnerable surrounded by acquaintances. He hoped that the common room would be empty. 

He leaned against the wall by the portrait and was thankful that its occupant had gone to visit someone else’s frame. The corridor looked strangely empty. He laid his hand over the limestone wall, feeling the smoothness that came from a thousand years of the dungeon’s damp air and students’ trailing hands. He paused for only a moment before murmuring, “Francis,” to the empty portrait. The snake-headed staff of the ancient king’s portrait responded instantly, turning into a living, breathing snake that curved itself outwards to form a handle to open the portrait. He swung the door open, and took a step inside, but as he did so, a swish of robes and a careful sharp step announced the arrival of Professor Snape. 

Snape must have noticed Draco’s strange expression, but he did not draw attention to it. “Mr. Malfoy,” he spoke. “You’re back early from dinner. Getting an early start on your studies?”

“Yes, Sir,” Draco replied stiffly and offered no further explanation. 

“You’re welcome to stop by my office if you’d like to discuss our project,” Snape continued. 

“Thank you, Sir.” 

“You have a good mind for Potions,” said Snape, “I’m sure you make your father proud.” Somehow, Draco was certain that that was not what Snape really meant. But instead of asking, he nodded his head again in thanks and fully entered the hallway to the common room. As it closed, he could hear Professor Snape’s steps receding down the corridor. 

Thankfully, the common room was mostly empty. Malfoy sat himself down at his favorite spot, right next to the window that looked into the depths of the Lake. He glared angrily at the giant squid and slouched in his chair. The room was quiet but warm, and no one bothered him. It was nice to be alone, and he tried to drive Luna’s comments far from his mind. She’d seen how he looks at boys, he thought, sure. I look at them like I look at everyone else. 

As if Lucius Malfoy’s only son could be such an embarrassment. 

To avoid thinking, he fished his potions textbook from his bag and opened it to the beginning. 

He didn’t sleep that night. In fact, he didn’t even go up to bed. He sat in the common room and listened to distant snores, while he murmured “lumos” in the dark room to light his reading. 

He wondered how things came so easily to people. Everything he was good at, he had worked impossibly hard for. No wonder he was cruel to people. Everything took so much energy, he justified. No one else even thought about what sort of person they had to be. But Draco? If he just let go, who knew just how he’d turn out. 

***  
Their first flying class was later that week. It had been delayed due to scheduling issues among the first-years, but Harry had been excited for it from the moment he heard of flight by broom. It seemed unreal to him, but then again, just a few months ago he had been doomed to a life with the Dursley’s. He wasn’t one to question miracles. 

When Gryffindor and Slytherin first years marched together to the lawn outside Hogwarts to meet with Madame Hooch, the excitement was palpable. All except perhaps Neville and Hermione looked hopeful that they would become the next Quidditch great. Draco was smiling, genuinely, with only a touch of smugness, Ron was laughing, and Harry couldn’t wait to start. 

When Madame Hooch arrived on the grass, the class fidgeted impatiently while she laid 22 brooms out on the grass. Without much organization, Gryffindor students lined up on one side, Slytherin on the other. 

“Now, step to the right of your brooms.” Madame Hooch waited impatiently as the eleven-year-olds struggled to remember their right from left. 

“Right is the other side, Mr. Longbottom,” she interrupted finally after a few moments of nervous confusion. 

“Right,” Neville replied. 

Ron couldn’t help laughing a little bit, but it was Draco and Goyle who mocked Neville cruelly. He really was such an easy target; he was easy to hate simply due to his incompetence and simpering embarrassment when he realized he got something wrong wrong. However, when Madame Hooch raised her hand to put a stop to it, the Slytherins fell silent almost immediately. 

“Now that you’re all there, I want you to extend your right arm and say very firmly, ‘Up.’” 

When Harry did so, the broom wobbled immediately, and flew up to hais hand easily. Never had he been more pleased, and he grinned naturally. While his entire Hogwarts experience had been like that, sort of--the feeling like he was finally doing what he should have always been doing--this was more than that. This was the feeling of being truly, naturally, good at something and something bloomed in his chest. 

“Blimey, Harry,” said Ron, who was struggling unsuccessfully to get the broom to so much as roll over.

Draco, too, was successful in almost immediately summoning his broom, but his face fell immediately when he saw that it had come even more naturally to Harry. Nonetheless, he was excited to prove to his house that he really could fly quite well; his mother had taught him when he was a small child, even though he hadn’t technically been old enough to learn. She had been a Seeker for the Slytherin quidditch team--just for a year, but she could fly quite well as a result. 

After a short while, all of the students, even Hermione--had managed to convince the brooms to cooperate, and Madame Hooch instructed the class to mount their brooms. 

Before the whistle that would signal them to briefly touch off, however, the unfortunate Neville kicked off by accident, and found himself rising steadily in the air amid gasps from his classmates.   
Draco couldn’t quite explain why he felt such frustration at a boy who clearly couldn’t help it. 

“Mr. Longbottom, come down right this instant!” 

The broom rose higher and higher, and Madame Hooch brandished her wand to regain control of it. It spun and spun, however, and shot up even further--before hurtling back down before Madame Hooch had the opportunity to stop it. 

Only a minute must have passed, but Neville lay slumped on the grass, clutching his wrist and sobbing quietly. 

“Careful, careful,” cooed Madame Hooch; a startling shift occurred in her demeanor. She helped Neville up softly and then turned a less sympathetic eye to the rest of the group. “If I see any brooms off the ground, the person on them will be out of Hogwarts faster than you could say ,’Quidditch.’” 

She marched off, one arm wrapped around Neville’s shoulders as she took him to the hospital wing. 

As soon as she was out of hearing distance, Draco let his anger swell up again and his frustrations from the morning funnelled into his sneer. He picked up the Remembrall that had fallen from his pocket and tossed it in the air before catching it again. 

“I think I’ll hide this somewhere Longbottom can’t reach,” he said, watching the Slytherins as they egged him on. 

Hermione stepped out of the group. “Neville didn’t do anything to you! Why do you have to make fun of him?”

“Because he’s slobbish and stupid and doesn’t deserve to be here,” Draco replied. “And don’t look at me like I’m the only one that thinks it.” 

“Put his Remembrall down,” said Harry. “And Neville has just as much a right to be here as you do.”

“He has less talent than the mudbloods,” jeered Draco. “He’s been given every opportunity and he’s still useless. You know it’s true. Anyway, if you want me to stop, you’ll have to make me.” He smirked at that. Harry would have to rise to the challenge--and Draco, Draco would succeed. 

In an easy step, Draco mounted his broom and soared into the air, still clutching the Remembrall in his right hand. “Too high up for you, Potter? Scared of heights?”

Not one to be one-upped, Harry slid onto his broom, ignoring Hermione’s warnings of, “But Harry, you don’t know how to fly!” 

It seemed that somehow, incredibly, Harry did know how to fly. He joined Draco high in the air as Draco tossed the Remembrall up and down. 

“Stop it, Malfoy,” said Harry. “Give me the Remembrall.”

“I’d rather not,” he shrugged. A wave of frustration at Harry’s righteous attitude swept through him, and he threw the Remembrall as hard as he could towards the direction of the Hogwarts tower. “No one’s special, Potter,” he yelled. “Not even you.” 

But Harry had already torn past him, hurtling at an impossible speed towards a window. It looked as if he would crash into it, but by some inexplicable talent, he swerved up at the last moment, brandishing the Remembrall in his right hand. 

As he swept down to the grass and landed gracefully, the crowd of first-years, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, gathered around him and cheered. 

The joy was short lived, however: Professor McGonagall stomped out onto the grass and the group quieted instantly. 

“Mr. Potter,” she said, “A word, please.”

Harry left, and Draco was left feeling impossibly frustrated. He was not foolish enough to think that he was the hero of the day. 

But Slytherins weren’t supposed to be heroes, he thought. Even if he was, nobody would see it that way. More anger flooded through him.


	3. Chartreuse

Draco couldn’t quite look at himself in the mirror after that. Everything was the same, but he felt ugly and older, and guilt was a constant companion. It baffled him; he had never felt guilty before.

The weeks passed by, monotonous and strange. He did everything as he had before. His homework was messy but always accurate. He replied to his mother’s letters every Sunday morning. He ate the same foods for breakfast and dinner. His routine was immaculate. And every day after class, he went to watch the 3 o’clock Quidditch practices and, somewhat enviously, the movements of the seekers: the angles at which they tilted, the way they scanned the skies. The Slytherin seeker was a seventh year, and Draco planned to be his replacement the following year. 

Quidditch was one of Draco’s joys, and he devoted himself to it. He couldn’t stand that Harry Potter,a basic imbecile, had managed to land himself the position of Gryffindor seeker--an unheard of assignment for a first-year. 

He hated Harry for many reasons, but most of all for how easily he succeeded. He marched around the school as if he owned the place, and no one but Professor Snape ever told him no. And Draco himself had offered his friendship, on the first day of school. But Harry Potter had nothing but scorn for Slytherin and all of its members. Harry Potter protected his idiot friends no matter who was at fault and treated Draco always as the villain. 

Draco had his friends, and he knew people in Slytherin looked up to him. He was more determined than most, after all, and his family was old and well-respected. But the facade of perfection was getting harder to maintain--he spent his nights reading because he couldn’t sleep, and wasn’t sure how to wander the halls without getting caught. So with his extra time, he dove into school work. 

Crabbe and Goyle hardly minded, because he’d tell them how to do it--not in a patient way, mind you, but in an exasperated and irritated and sleep-deprived way. Draco hated who he was when he was frustrated, or tired. But he couldn’t stop himself. Soon, he decided that it was easier to hate himself than it was to change himself. 

He spent more time with Pansy Parkinson. It seemed that she too had been pulled aside by Professor Snape, who told her she had much potential for Potions. The two of them discussed their work together, and he was pleasantly surprised to find her of a similarly practical mind. 

It was a Tuesday evening just after dinner when the two of them sat talking in the common room. Their conversation had shifted to charms, a class half of Slytherins and half Ravenclaws. 

“I can’t stand it,” Pansy said, and Draco nodded in agreement. “It’s not teaching us anything real yet, just how to levitate a damn feather!” 

“And all Flitwick does is repeat ‘swish and flick, swish and flick’ over and over again as if it actually helps. If no one can do it, it’s not bad students; it’s a bad teacher,” Draco added. 

“There’s a very peculiar girl in my class,” Pansy remarked. “She looks like she’s got her head in the clouds but she’s the only one who can do it. It makes it worse for the rest of us because she can’t explain how she can do it. She’s in my Herbology class, though, and she’s absolute rubbish.” 

“It’s stupid,” agreed Draco, but he was thinking more along the lines of how frustrating it is when people inexplicably have talent. 

Pansy was barely listening. “There’s a reason everyone calls her Loony,” she continued. “The other day she spent hours putting up leaflets for some club she started.” 

Draco felt a surge of adrenaline. Luna. He had managed to push her out of his mind, but--

“Draco,” she said, not realizing that her words had had any effect on him, “I told Professor Snape I would drop by his office at 8 to discuss an extra project. Wanna come?” 

He looked back at her face and said, “Yes, definitely. What time is it now?”

“Almost time to go,” she said. They collected their textbooks and stepped out of the common room. 

The walked together in silence for a while and when they got to the office, Draco knocked on the door forcefully. 

“Come in,” came the slow and resonant reply from inside. Draco and Pansy hesitated for a moment out of nervousness, and finally Draco opened the door. Smirking at her, he said, “Ladies first,” mostly so he wouldn’t have to step inside first. Pansy snorted softly and went through the door.

“Malfoy, Parkinson,” greeted Professor Snape. “I see you’ve made each other’s acquaintance.” Snape took a long look at Pansy but didn’t comment. 

“I have a few textbooks for the both of you. Few have the--” he paused, as if selecting his next word carefully, “precociousness required to succeed with Potions. Anyone can succeed in waving a wand--but Potions is an art. You must treat it carefully.” 

Draco and Pansy nodded seriously, and Snape continued, “I have noticed that both of you work independently and efficiently. I would like you to view this as a challenge--to take each other’s direction and work together. I will tell you only the name of the potion, and I would like you to research it, create it, improve it. Tell me what it does--” 

He gave them a small textbook and a slip of paper, and instructed them to come back to him with what they might need. 

The duo returned to the common room late and a little tired, but excited to get started.

“What potion is it,” asked Pansy impatiently. Draco unfolded the paper slowly, mostly to bother her. 

She grabbed the paper from his hands and raised her eyebrows when she read it. “Pansy! Show me, what is it,” he said harshly. She laughed in reply. 

“No need to get angry,” she said. “It says ‘Wolfsbane.’ I wonder what it’s for.”


	4. Crimson

“Gryffindor’s not looking so good now, Potter,” taunted Draco. He spat out the “p” as if it tasted bad. The Slytherin and Gryffindor first years had just gotten out of a shared Potions class, and suffice it to say that Gryffindor was short a few points thanks to Hermione’s over enthusiasm and Harry’s lack thereof. Snape was unimpressed with both of them.

“Oh, do shut up, Malfoy,” replied Ron, standing to Harry’s right. 

“What if I’d rather not?” replied Draco. Crabbe, coming from behind him, repeated, “Yeah, what if?” in a way that Draco personally was embarrassed by. The lack of originality--

“Listen, Weasley,” said Draco. “Pure-bloods end up in Slytherin for a reason.”

“Yeah, because they’re self-righteous arseholes,” muttered Ron. 

Draco ignored him. “Purebloods grow up with magic. It comes naturally to them. Mudbloods, even half-bloods? It’s just not the same.” He sounded much more self-assured than he felt. 

“Is that how it works with Quidditch?” asked Harry spitefully, “because I don’t see you on the team.” 

Instinctively, Draco drew his wand, but Goyle nudged him harshly, just in time--he had seen Professor McGonagall walking towards the confrontation. Draco stowed his wand back in his robes, and looked Harry dead in the eyes. 

“We’ll see more of each other,” he said threateningly. But he was aware even then, as he marched off to his next class, that his words sounded weak. He had not won that battle of wits. He didn’t know what difference blood made; he just knew that there had to be one. Pure bloods were supposed to be effortlessly better. 

But even he could recognized that the Granger girl seemed to know everything despite only being introduced to magic in the past year. 

As Draco walked away, he heard Ron explaining dutifully to Harry that blood didn’t make a difference. Something didn’t seem right, but he wasn’t sure what. 

He didn’t have time to think about it, either. This past morning, he had received a letter from his father that made it clear they would meet that afternoon. 

***  
The meeting had been late afternoon, and it was evening by the time Draco could muster the courage to even leave his dormitory again. Even then he only left to eat with the rest of his house for dinner; he wouldn’t want to raise suspicion. 

On his walk there, a voice interrupted him. 

“Draco,” it said, “you don’t look so good.” It was Luna. Somehow, thought Draco, it was always Luna who could see right through him. 

He turned towards her and answered, “Family stuff. I had a meeting with my dad.”

“Didn’t go well?” she asked innocently as they fell into step together. 

“Why are you bothering me?” Draco asked, sounding more curious than irritated. His meeting with his father really had drained all his energy.

“Because you don’t talk to anyone,” she replied. 

“You don’t know that,” he protested. “Besides, I do talk to plenty of people.” 

“Like who?”

“Pansy Parkinson, and Crabbe, and Goyle.”

“Do you even know their first names--Crabbe and Goyle?”

“Of course I do,” Draco said defensively. “They’re my friends.” 

“Okay,” said Luna agreeably. “Would you like to sit and eat dinner with me?”

“At the Ravenclaw table?”

“It makes no difference to me,” she said. 

“Okay, fine,” he replied, “so long as we stay at the Slytherin table. Other houses don’t like me very much.”

“I wonder why that is,” said Luna with a slight smile. Draco scoffed back at her. 

As they sat together, Draco found Luna’s presence to be a welcome distraction from the waves of anxiety that washed over him. She chatted about meaningless things for the most part, and he was happy to only respond occasionally. She seemed not to judge him for his quietude and he felt a cautious gratitude towards her. 

He interrupted her, asking, “What are your parents like?”

She looked a little taken aback--parents really had nothing to do with her discussion of how to repel pixies-- but she transitioned flawlessly to answer. 

“My father is wonderful,” she said. “He’s been sadder and quieter since my mum died, but we trust each other. He’s taught me a lot.”

“How did she die--your mum?” asked Draco, wincing at himself for the bluntness of his question. 

“Magical experiments when I was nine. She always was a bit of a free spirit,” said Luna smiling. “She was wonderful too. I really am quite lucky.” 

“My mum is wonderful, too,” said Draco. “She’s graceful and protective and she loves me a lot.” He hesitated, not wanting to complain after Luna had told him her misfortune. 

“And your dad?” she asked, sensing that something was unspoken. 

“We never argue,” he said. I never say anything back, he thought. 

She looked at him thoughtfully and didn’t press him further. “You should write, you know. If it makes you feel better. Especially if no one will read it.”

“I don’t think writing will help me,” he replied. 

“You’d be surprised, Draco. So many things look simpler on paper, and you wonder in the end why you didn’t see the solution in the first place.”

Draco’s face flushed red as he was swept by a sudden bout of anger. How could she know? How could she even imagine what it’s like. 

“You don’t know my father,” he said almost violently. He gathered his bag and got up to leave, but Luna looked at him quietly. 

“You’re nothing like him,” she said simply. 

“You don’t know that either,” he replied. “I’m terrible to people especially when they’re like you.” 

“Like me?” she asked. 

“You know--” Draco stopped speaking before he could explain what he meant. “I’m cruel to people, and they hate me.”

“Then don’t be cruel,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He shook his head and left the table dramatically. 

Luna remained sitting, looking both calm and disappointed.


	5. Violet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have 13 chapters written so far, but am posting them slowly so they can be properly edited! Thanks for reading you guys!   
> -Sam

November approached swiftly and Professor McGonagall became increasingly concerned. Lucius Malfoy had visited the school four times in the previous three weeks, and only once had he visited his son. Considering what the school was hiding--and knowing precisely the sort of person Lucius was--she thought it would be rather a good idea to voice her concerns to the headmaster. 

“Considering what we’re protecting, Albus,” she had said, “we really must be more careful. The Malfoy boy might get mixed up in this if his father is still looking for some way--” she lowered her voice, “to gain power.”

She had protested when Albus had waved her off; she had told him what she thought. And Albus had replied in characteristic vagueness: “I’ve handled it, Minerva.” 

So with little other recourse, she found herself marching down to the dungeons to the office of Professor Snape. While Minerva and Severus had never gotten on particularly well, they had a healthy respect for each other and even had a similar approach to their teaching. 

She knocked on the door to his office, and Severus replied, “Come in,” with his typical manner of speech. 

As she came in the door, he greeted her with a look of subtle surprise. “Professor McGonagall,” he said, “I was expecting two students of mine.”

“Really, Severus, I don’t know why you must insist upon these formalities,” replied McGonagall frankly. 

Professor Snape merely curled his lips upward slightly in reply; it couldn’t be called a smile. “How can I help you, Minerva?” he asked. 

“I am worried about Malfoy,” she said. 

“The son, or the father?” came his reply. 

“Draco would not be a problem if his father was not Lucius Malfoy.”

He looked around the room almost theatrically as if to check that no one was listening. Once convinced that no one was there, he replied, “Lucius has taken the fall of the Dark Lord rather poorly, I think. He is convinced that he is capable of reviving the movement. I too am concerned of what he will try, considering what we have hidden within these walls. But I do not believe Lucius capable of much harm” 

“Lucius is meeting with his son today,” said Minerva. “I am afraid he will ask Draco to look for the stone.” 

“Surely Lucius has no way of knowing what we are hiding,” said Severus. 

“If he does not know, he will try to find out,” replied Minerva, pushing up her glasses. “I’ve talked to Albus, but--”

“Frankly,” said Severus, “I think we have little to worry about. Draco Malfoy is an excellent student. He works hard and deserves the talent he has.”

“But he is cruel, Severus. He is a bully. He needs a father that can show him there are other ways to be respected.” 

“He’s young, Minerva,” said Severus more coldly, punctuating each word with a careful pause. “He needs time to learn. And if anything unusual happens, I’ll go to the third floor to make sure Draco’s not involved. Lucius is too cowardly to do much himself.”

“Thank you,” said Minerva finally. She hesitated a moment before stepping out of the dungeons and walking briskly back to her living quarters.

***

Halloween, a Thursday morning, arrived and many students couldn’t be bothered to go to class. There was palpable excitement for the evening feast, which was supposed to be legendary in size and quality. 

Draco took one look at himself in the mirror and decided he looked too ill to go to class without raising suspicion. It would be better just to skip with the rest of them--no matter how out of character it was for him. 

He stayed in bed, still in the process of summoning enough courage to get up and get dressed. He groaned. If after this, Halloween was still his favorite holiday, he would be pleasantly shocked. 

He had until the evening to figure out how he would get there. His father had told him that he would know when to slip away and search the third floor--it would be during the feast. But until then, Draco decided he would just do his best to catch up on homework before he did what he had to. 

Professor McGonagall knew something was wrong the moment three students were missing from her class. Two of them--Justin Fletcher and Vincent Goyle--hardly surprised her. Neither were spectacular students, nor were they dedicated. But she thought it was odd that Draco was missing. It was unlike him to skip class. 

There was nothing to be done about it, however, especially considering that during scheduled class time, students outside of class were noticed quite quickly. There was little danger of Draco even leaving his Common Room. 

The students’ anticipation for the feast grew throughout the day, crowds of students constantly dropping by the Great Hall to see how the decorations were proceeding. Jack O'Lanterns had replaced the normal candles--Flitwick, the charms teacher, had been busy. The entire Great Hall, in fact, was bathed in eerie lighting. There were more ghosts than most of the first years even thought possible, and they too were excited; there was a midnight party for them held after the feasts. Moaning Myrtle herself, who had not been seen since the previous October, left her bathroom to peak over the side of the banisters and see what was happening. 

The entire school bustled; quidditch practice and other group meetings had been cancelled so that students could enjoy the entire duration of the feast. Oliver Wood, captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team, however, was none too pleased--the first game was the only 9 days away. 

Nevertheless, by the time four o’clock rolled around, the entire school was ready to begin the festivities. The students were prepared to eat early so that the older ones could participate in the annual ghost-spotting carriage ride through the Hogwarts grounds as soon as it was dark. 

Draco had joined the throngs of other students crowding into the entrance of the Great Hall. It was exactly then that the doors boomed open; the professors were all present at their head table. Dumbledore waited until the students were seated, and then , brandishing his wand, said, “Let the feast begin.” 

Food sprang up in front of them, and there was an audible gasp from most of the first years. The feast had begun. 

While the day had been spent in unrelenting fear, Draco felt his anxiety slip away as the moment approached. He detached from himself, as if he were watching his body act on autopilot. 

He ate little, but smiled easily; he teased Pansy and was even casually talkative. The majority of his focus, though, was on the task at hand. 

The distraction would cause panic, his father had said. Draco would scream with the rest of them, look scared and confused, so that if he got caught he could blame it on fear. He would follow the Ravenclaws halfway to the tower, upon which he would veer off and run straight for the third floor. 

He would use the charm his father had given him to open the door--Draco had practiced it a hundred times on his trunk; it was not difficult. The door would open, Draco would find what was being hidden and, if needed, how to get around what was guarding it. And, when Draco had fulfilled his task, his family would be safe. The Dark Lord would let his mother go, just like his father had promised. 

Professor Snape had scanned the room carefully before the feast had started, and although nothing was out of the ordinary, he remained cautious. He drank none of the supplied wine, despite how partial he was to the vintner. 

Throughout the evening meal, he was calm but distant. None of the other professors noticed his increased wariness, though, because it differed little from his usual behavior. 

A heavy noise resounded from outside the hallway. It sounded far away, and as if something very large was dragging an equally large object across the ground. 

The Great Hall fell instantly silent. The students, half of whom usually relished recounting impossibly courageous stories of their encounters with Dark Creatures, collectively turned towards the sound, fear on their faces. 

Professor Snape stood up and cast a Seeing Spell through the walls of the school. 

“It’s a troll,” he said, more quickly than he normally spoke: “in the hallway by the dungeons.”

Professor Dumbledore reacted, bringing calm to an immediately hysteric situation; he instructed, “Prefects, if you would please lead your houses to your common rooms. Slytherin house will accompany the Ravenclaw prefects in order to avoid the dungeons. Teachers, please come with me to the Dungeons.”

Draco pushed away his fear and slipped out of the Great Hall as the students evacuated. They crowded around him, some walking quickly, some pushing others to get through. It was effortless to hide by a corner; effortless to make his way to the third floor. All had gone according to plan. 

He glanced around himself, seeing no one. He brandished his wand, and muttered, “Alohomora” to the immense door. 

The lock clicked open, and Draco slipped into the dark room within. 

Professor Snape turned down the corridor on the third floor just moments after, his robes fluttering behind him from the speed of his movement. His wand was already drawn, and when he saw that the door had been unlocked, he rushed towards it. 

He tore back the door, almost prepared to find the body of a mauled eleven year old--but instead found Draco, cowering in a corner. The boy’s eyes were transfixed by the massive Thing in front of them. It was a three-headed dog, Draco realized, thoughts slowed by panic. Its six yellow eyes opened deliberately, each one larger than Draco’s head. 

Those three pairs of eyes fixed upon Draco Malfoy. 

Sensing there was no time to waste, Professor Snape flung himself towards Draco; Snape grabbed the boy’s wrist and yanked Draco towards himself. As he did, the three-headed dog lunged at him--one of his pairs of fangs clamped firmly around Snape’s right leg. Still holding onto Draco, Snape blasted the dog back with a bolt of light from his wand. 

He pulled both himself and Draco back through the door into the hallway, and, while the dog snapped at the opening, he slammed it shut with a well-timed spell. 

They lay on the ground for a moment while they caught their breaths before Snape turned to Draco and muttered, “Of all stupidity, Malfoy, Of all insanity.”

Draco felt like defending himself, felt like explaining that he had to, or his parents--but instead he retreated into himself, and said, “I’m sorry, Sir.” 

“Save your mundane apologies for your father,” replied Snape, gritting his teeth at the pain in his leg. “No, go with the rest of them in your house, and don’t let me catch you even thinking about this nonsense again.”

“Yes Sir,” replied Draco. He still looked dazed, as if he hadn’t quite comprehended what had just happened.“Professor?” 

“This is your first and final warning,” Snape replied, “Do not go searching for what is in that room. If you do, I cannot help you.”

Snape pushed himself up, and Draco looked around as if to go. 

“Thank you, Professor,” he said, finally, and rushed around the corner. 

Snape would keep his secret. Draco wasn’t sure why, but he knew that he would.


	6. Sable

It was hard to look Professor Snape in the eye after that, but Draco did anyway, determined to win back his approval. He threw himself into his work to ignore the sick feeling that lived inside him, perched underneath his lungs. He ate very little, and engaged himself fully in whatever distraction he could find. 

He barely slept that weekend. He studied Potions late into the night, and even his less observant friends noticed that something was wrong. 

“We can’t help you if you don’t talk to us,” Pansy said. But Draco waved it off as family drama, which wasn’t exactly a lie. 

The Tuesday following, as he was walking out of Transfigurations, he was stopped by the strict (but strangely compassionate) voice of Professor McGonagall. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, “if you would stay a moment.” He returned to the classroom obediently. 

“Yes Professor?”

“Is everything alright?” she asked. She had noted his increasingly tired appearance since Friday, and even those less perceptive than she could easily see his dark circles and irritated eyes. 

He felt like saying It’s not your job to ask me that, it’s my Head of House’s, but he didn’t because he was confident that would not be received well. Instead he said, “Perfectly fine, Professor.”

She hesitated, but continued, determined. “If you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about whatever it is, that’s fine. But your Head of House or even the Headmaster is available to you.”

“What for?” asked Draco as innocently as he could muster. 

“I can tell you haven’t slept much, if at all,” she said, “that's all.”

“Thank you for your concern,” he said, trying to hide his discomfort, “but I have to get to class.”

Professor McGonagall simply nodded her head and did not prevent him from slinging his bookbag over his shoulder and hurrying out of the classroom. She hadn’t expected him to open up, anyway, but it had been worth a try. 

She never did understand Slytherins. They were so uptight, so--angsty. Obviously, Gryffindors were far more likely to do stupid things--even last week she had to reprimand three of her first years for attempting to take down a troll. They had succeeded, but still. Gryffindors would at least tell you what they were thinking (that is, if they were thinking anything at all). 

She thought fondly of those three foolish students. She was personally thrilled that the incident had seemed to cement a bond between Harry, Ron,and Hermione. She had no doubt they’d be up to more mischief, but who knew? Maybe Miss Granger would be a moderating force.

***

“Wait, explain it again,” said Harry. “I killed this man? How?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. It was the second week since their friendship had been christened by the troll incident, and she was already frustrated that Harry and Ron seemed to use her as an endless supply of information rather than visiting Hogwarts’s extensive library. 

“You-know-who--”

“He’s dead, why don’t you call him Voldemort?” interrupted Ron. 

“Ron,” replied Hermione, exasperated. 

“It’s alright,” said Harry, “just repeat what you said maybe? About Voldemort?”

“Voldemort was a really talented wizard that graduated Hogwarts almost fifty years ago. He thought that people who were purebloods were better than everyone else--”

Ron interrupted again, this time reacting to Harry’s confused face, and explained, “pureblood is when both your parents were magic. Some people think it makes them better than others.”

Hermione impatiently continued. “So he tried to kill people that disagreed with him, and he succeeded in killing a lot of Muggles and Muggleborns. He tried to kill your family because they fought against him in the First Wizarding War. But somehow, it didn’t kill you. The spell rebounded off you and hit him. And no one’s seen him since. Some families like the Malfoys try to say that he’s still alive, but it’s a lie. McGonagall thinks that Draco’s father is just trying to take You-know-who’s place, and so he tells people that the Dark Lord is still around. But he’s just trying to scare them. Dumbledore and the others, they found the body. Voldemort isn’t coming back.”

“But why did it re-bound?” asked Harry. 

“No one really knows, my mum says,” said Ron. “Well, Dumbledore might.” 

There was a bit of silence before Hermione broke it. “Harry, you should go shower.”

“Right,” he said awkwardly. Ron laughed good-heartedly and playfully held his nose. 

“How do you even sweat from Quidditch,” he said, “It’s just staying on the broom.” Harry smiled and went up to the dormitories.

“So,” said Ron to Hermione, “Do you know how to play Wizard Chess?” 

“Is it different from normal chess?”

“Not in principle,” said Ron, proud of himself for knowing that Muggles played chess, too.  
“I’ll be right back,” he said, “and I’ll show you how.” 

He got up and went to his dormitory to get his set. As soon as Ron turned the corner, Hermione brandished her wand and whispered “Accio Wizarding Chess.” 

Neville, who had been watching from the opposite side of the room, said, “Hermione, what does that do?”

“Neville, shh!” she said. Presently, Ron’s Wizarding Chess set whipped around the corner into the room, landing squarely on Hermione’s lap. 

Ron came back around the corner several minutes later. “I couldn’t--” he trailed off as he stared at the set on Hermione’s lap. “Is that--? Bloody hell, Hermione.” 

She laughed loudly at her own prank. “You’ll see,” said Ron. 

“See what?” she said once she had finished giggling. 

Ron took the pieces and the board out of the dilapidated box and spread them across the coffee table in the center of the room. Hermione plopped onto the floor across from him and said, “It won’t take too long, right? I have homework.” 

“Hermione, it’s a Friday!” 

She shrugged. “There’s a reason you come to me for homework help.” 

Ron set up the board intently, looking up only to ask, “Have you ever played chess before?”

Hermione shook her head. Unsurprisingly, she added, “I know the rules, though.”

And so the game began. 

When Harry came back from his shower, he found Ron sitting on the floor by the coffee table, surrounded by crushed chess pieces. Hermione was nowhere to be found. 

“Ron? Where’s Hermione?” he asked. Ron shrugged good naturedly and replied, “I think she went to talk to Neville. Or start homework. I dunno.” 

“I take it chess did not go well then,” replied Harry. 

“I was having a good time,” said Ron. “Besides, it’s probably good Hermione’s not good at everything. It would be a bit much.” 

Harry agreed.   
***

The first Quidditch match approached the following week, the second Thursday in November. It was a Gryffindor versus Slytherin match, and the tension from their house rivalry mounted.Even Hermione had sworn she’d go. Ron had offered to make Harry a sign, but Harry had refused. 

Classes seemed to take a back seat in everyone’s mind. The whole school was more than ready for the first Quidditch game of the season. Harry’s popularity skyrocketed from “that odd kid who happened to have killed Voldemort” to house-hero” status. 

Draco had never been angrier at him, however. Between the stress from the Potions project, his failed attempt at Halloween, and his Quidditch obsession, he had been getting even less sleep than usual. He would go to the game, of course, and root for Slytherin. He was even excited for it. But he didn’t have to be happy seeing Harry in it. 

Draco and Pansy had Potions together just after lunch on Mondays, and they left a scrap of parchment with Professor Snape with a list of ingredients they were sure they’d need. They asked for slightly more than they strictly speaking required to have enough for experimentation, as Snape had instructed.

Astronomy had been cancelled that week, because the week previously they had had an extra midnight laboratory for stargazing. So Monday afternoon, Draco found himself free to do as he wished for the couple hours before he returned to his routine of watching the Quidditch teams practice. 

He wasn’t sure what took him to the shores of the Lake. He’d spent so much time in the Common Room watching the Lake from beneath, but it was different from above. Somehow it was darker and more sinister. In the Common Room it always appeared friendly, as if the creatures and merpeople and eyes that peered through the window were benevolent visitors. But from above, Draco was struck by how much of the Lake was hidden. The sky was cloudy; it looked like the first snow would strike soon. The Lake looked like ink. 

He stayed there for a while, watching the waves lap at the shore, before leaving to walk in the orchard nearby. Leaves fluttered to the ground occasionally, and the ground was soft with them. He loosened the tie of his school uniform, and sat down against a tree. 

Draco forgot how uncommon it was for him to truly be alone, and he enjoyed the nominal silence as he listened to the faint breeze. He stared towards the Lake and saw the Dark Forest in the distance. He’d go there one day, he thought. With someone who wouldn’t mind walking with him. Maybe Pansy would like to explore it, but somehow, he doubted it. 

A voice interrupted his musings and he heard feet crunch on leaves behind him. “I thought I was the only one that came here,” said the voice. It had a whispery quality, sweet but self-assured, and he knew immediately to whom it belonged. 

“Loony,” he said, turning his head just slightly. She sat down next to him, bringing her knees to her chest and wiggling her bare toes. 

“Aren’t you cold?” he continued. 

“Not really,” she said. “I don’t really notice the cold much.” 

“Why do you wear those glasses?” he asked. “They don’t have glass in them.”

“They help me see the Nargles,” she said. “They can be hard to find if you’re not careful.” Draco didn’t bother asking what Nargles were. 

“Are you going to the Quidditch game?” Draco inquired instead. 

“I think I will,” she replied, but didn’t explain. 

They sat in silence for a while, before she said, “You’re not as bad as you like to seem. It’s unfortunate I can’t stay for longer.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to pack,” she replied. “My father’s taken ill and I have to be home.”

“What about school,” asked Draco, shocked. “Isn’t that more important to him?”

“There’s always next year,” she replied. “It won’t be so bad.” With that, Luna stood up, and half-ran, half-walked, back to the castle. 

Draco didn’t see her at the Quidditch match.


	7. Lavender

It was Tuesday the following week when Draco Malfoy snuck out of bed, deliberately breaking a Hogwarts rule for the second of what would be many times.If Snape caught him this time, there would be hell to pay-- But Draco felt a compulsion that overrode his anxious and typically cautious nature. 

He slipped out from behind the portrait and found the king snoring gently, one hand still clenched around a precariously gripped wine glass. 

Draco’s robes brushed gently against the floor and he noticed how peculiar the halls seemed in the quiet dark. 

He left the hallways of the dungeons quickly to avoid Filch and Mrs. Norris, the unpleasant caretaker and his cat, respectively. Filch seemed to take a particular liking for the dungeons; maybe it was the dampness that suited him. Nevertheless, Draco had little idea of where he'd go from there. 

He wandered to a staircase that looked over the Great Hall. The clouds inside looked almost friendly, and the candles still gleamed in the midnight hours. Abruptly, though, the staircase shifted, and he found himself swinging above the hall towards a corridor he didn’t recognize. 

The grinding of stone on stone gradually came to a halt, and he stepped onto the limestone floor of the new corridor. The castle here had not recently been renovated, and the stone tiles wobbled as he stepped over them. He walked, breathless with anticipation and a tinge of weariness, down the corridor as the walls danced with the light of the occasional torch. 

The hallway narrowed as it came to its end, an archway lit up by more torches. As Draco approached, the archway became more definite and the stone rippled to surround an old, imposing oak door. Above the wood, carved in stone, read “The Room of Requirement.” 

Draco’s sense of curiosity would have drove him through the door anyway, but the sound of an ill tempered cat meowing warned him of Mrs. Norris’s presence. Draco hurried inside, letting the door slam shut behind him. He drew the bolt across the entrance, hoping to prevent the cat and its unwelcome caretaker from finding him. He had no desire to be dragged to Professor Snape’s office at this late an hour--or at any hour, for that matter, the very first time he broke a rule. 

Draco needn’t have worried. To the outside eye, the Room of Requirement once again was covered by a limestone wall, and the torches no longer hinted at its hiding spot. There was no proof of anything special, in fact, along that monotonous hallway. 

He peered into the room. It was dark--there was no light from lanterns; only from the moonlight that poured in through a tall, solitary window. The room was mostly empty, and Draco walked immediately towards that window. Somehow, however improbably, the room overlooked the Lake, despite his certainty that the Lake was the direction from whence he had come. As peculiar as that was, however, a solitary large object stood slightly offset from the window. He approached it it. Covered in a large cotton sheet, it seemed larger than it was, nearly twice Draco’s height. Feeling his hair stand up on end, he crept forward and with a burst of courage he didn’t know he had, he grasped the sheet firmly and pulled it to the ground. 

“Mirror of Erised” read the inscription at the top of the object. It was in fact a mirror, and Draco saw himself through the glass peering back, pale and cold. In the mirror, though, something was different. 

Smudged shadows emerged from behind him, and he spun around to check that they did not exist in the room.

He turned back to the mirror and those shadows began to solidify. Images of his mother and father transfixed him. His mother’s face seemed transformed by an easy smile, and she put her chin just above Draco’s head and smoothed down his hair with both hands. He was sure she was saying something, and that it was kind, but he could not hear the words. How he looked, too, struck him as strange. His hair fell about his face without being slicked back. He looked even younger than he was. The bags under his eyes were gone, and the boy in the mirror turned back, towards his father, smiling to get his attention. 

Lucius leaned easily on his walking stick, and gave Draco a small nod. There was no escaping the truth of that nod. It was one of approval. 

It felt so real it shocked him when he reached to touch his mother’s hand and touched only empty space. He sat down heavily on the floor, and watched, feeling something akin to bliss intermixed with grief. 

It seemed only minutes later that the sun came up on Wednesday morning. Startled from his reverie, he slipped from the room and made his way to the Great Hall to get breakfast.


	8. Salmon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait--I decided to write a disconnected one shot in the Harry Potter Universe--and I've spent the last week writing it. It turned into a bit of a monster, a 50 page monster, that I'll be posting. 
> 
> I should be back to this one more regularly now.

The third week after the Quidditch match (which Gryffindor regretfully won), Draco got his second letter from his father.It, too, organized a meeting time, reading simply, “I will be visiting your school this Friday at four o’clock sharp. We will meet in the Visitor’s Room by the Ravenclaw Tower. Be on time.” 

It was this that Draco had been avoiding for the weeks since Halloween. 

There was no room to reschedule or to tell him that Draco was otherwise occupied at 4:00 that Friday. Quidditch practice ran until 4:30, afterall. But Draco would be there per his father’s instructions. He always was. 

It struck him as strange, though, that his mother had still been sending him letters as if nothing had happened. Perhaps she would be just fine, anyhow, even though Draco had failed--

In the meantime, Pansy and Draco had been meeting Monday nights in preparation to brew the Wolfsbane potion, researching different recipes in old, decrepit library textbooks. Finally, they considered themselves ready to attempt it. The textbooks had warned that if the potion smelled like lilac, it had failed, and the area should be evacuated. No textbook seemed to explain what exactly that danger was, but Draco and Pansy had no intention of finding out. 

Ideally, the potion would be brewed at night, under the light of the moon, and they were fortunate enough to have a permission slip to access one of the rooms by the Ravenclaw Tower. It was right by the Astronomy lecturing room and occasionally used for stargazing. The windows were, after all, floor to ceiling and provided a healthy supply of natural light. 

For what seemed like hours, they chopped, sliced, crushed, and stirred the ingredients one by one into a simmering cauldron--heated to exactly 98 degrees Celsius. They spoke very little; their lengthy preparation meant they had little need to communicate. 

Just after midnight, it was done. As described on every scrap of parchment in every old textbook they could find, the potion emitted a silvery mist that smelled unmistakably like wet fur. Fortunately, there was no trace of lilac. 

They looked at each other with a combination of shock and startled pride. 

“Should we… do it again, or something?” asked Pansy. “I didn’t expect it to work the first time.” 

“Me neither,” admitted Draco. “We did prepare, though.”

“Of course we prepared,” muttered Pansy, almost indignant at the very idea. “But things are never this easy. Things are difficult and that’s why you have to prepare for them. That’s why Slytherin is the best.” 

She sounded angry, and her sentiment was one that Draco felt daily. Instead of agreeing, though, Draco looked at her evenly. It surprised him to hear his own thoughts out loud. They maintained eye contact for a long while before Draco interrupted the silence with, “We should clean up. I’ll give the potion to Snape tomorrow morning to show that we’ve done it.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said, pulling herself up off the floor to store the excess ingredients and materials in her bag. Draco hesitated and then joined her. 

Eventually, they finished and began walking back to the Slytherin common room together. “You know,” Draco said, almost thoughtfully, “Not everything’s hard. It’s just, the things you expect to be hard are easy and that means when things are really hard, you can’t help but think you’re just dumb.”

“Maybe,” she said, and they lapsed into a companionable silence.


	9. Black

The last few hours of the day were difficult to get through, but not for the same reasons as on most Fridays. Apprehension replaced his normal excitement at a chance for two days of minimal stress, a good deal of reading interesting non-school related things, and strolling the halls judgmentally with Crabbe and Goyle. Pansy and he did their homework together, too, without the uncomfortable hurriedness of school days. 

 

On this day, he was even more fidgety than normal; he tapped the end of his quill against the desk until the feather flattened. He willed Professor Flitwick to hurry up and release them early--Draco wasn’t even sure what he’d do, but that was hardly the point. Unfortunately, the tiny old man refused to comply with Draco’s unvoiced wish. Eventually, the clock reached 2:45 and the class was dismissed, to Draco’s obvious relief. 

 

He left quickly, feeling odd for not immediately going to the Quidditch practice. Instead, he went straight for the Common Room so he could shower before four o’clock. He took his time getting ready, changing back into his school robes for a reason he couldn’t quite explain. When he was done, he went back to the common room and was surprised to find it was still only 3:15. 

 

Not sure what to do, he wandered to the Ravenclaw Tower, and decided to wait in a room adjacent to the visitor’s room. People walked by him, but today of all days they seemed not to see him. Even when Harry Potter walked by, they just nodded at each other. No egging each other on, no cruel remarks. 

 

The afternoon felt surreal to him. He recalled something Luna once told him, and he sat down with his book and dipped his quill into his inkwell. 

 

His quill hovered above the page, and finally, his thoughts began to flow. 

 

_ I don’t write, I don’t know how, really. But no one else knows _

_ What my life is like. No one else seems to care or to ask me questions _

_ That really matter. And I don’t know how to ask them. I don’t know _

_ How to connect with people _

_ Or how to think or feel things properly _

_ And I’m terrified of my father. _

_ He asked me to find out what was on the third floor-- _

_ And I couldn’t do it.   _

 

He stopped for a moment and looked at his casual scrawl. He had never said that, not to anyone. He just told people how powerful Lucius Malfoy was, or what he’d do if he found out how Draco was being treated. Really, it was an enormous falsehood. Lucius Malfoy only stood up for his son when Lucius had something to gain. 

 

_ I’m eleven years old, I’m not a child anymore.  _

_ I’m starting to know what I want but  _

_ I don’t know who I am or what to think _

_ And Luna’s the only one who knows what to say,  _

_ And she’s not here right now.  _

 

He stared at that line for a minute or two, and then made up his mind. He flipped to the next page in his notebook and started writing her. 

 

_ Luna,  _

_ I know we’re not close friends, and I’m not really sure why I’m writing to you. It’s not like I have a crush on you or anything. But I need someone to talk to. I’m scared that my mother’s in danger, my father said she was, that the Dark Lord had threatened her if I didn’t obey, but she still sends me letters so he must be lying. She never said anything in her letters, just how excited she would be to see me over Christmas.  _

 

Who was he kidding, this letter wasn’t for Luna anymore. He’d write that one, soon. He should ask about her father, anyway. He began again. 

_ Luna,  _

_I know we’re not close friends and you probably have a lot to worry about, but I wanted_ _to write. How is your father? Do you think you will come back next year?_

 

_ It’s almost Christmas here.  _

 

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. It’s almost Christmas for her, too. 

 

_ Luna,  _

_ I know we’re not close friends and you probably have a lot to worry about, but I wanted to write. How is your father? Do you think you’ll come back next year? _

_ I wonder how the Sorting Hat will work if you’ve already been sorted. You’ll still be in Ravenclaw, I guess.  _

_ I’m sorry, I’m not good at writing to people. I’m meeting with my father in twenty minutes and I’m sort of terrified. I messed something up and I’m really worried. No one knows that though. I’m only really friends with Pansy Parkinson. And you’re the one that told me I should write. So I’m writing to you. I hope you’ll write me back. I don’t know what else to say, so, bye.  _

 

He printed his name neatly underneath. It was short, but it was a start. He glanced at the clock and found that the time had passed more easily. It was already five to four, and so he shoved his papers back in his bag, wiped the ink off his hand, and put away his inkwell and quill. He walked into the hallway by the visiting room, feeling only a little braver. He knew his father’s words would be far from kind over Draco’s failure. 

The room was empty when Draco walked in, which was strange to him. He imagined his father’s angular face so strongly that he assumed that he must be there. But true to form, Lucius Malfoy did not arrive until it was precisely four o’clock. Like always, his steel walking stick preceded him with an unwelcome, rhythmic clacking. 

 

All at once, he was there. Draco stood up straighter involuntarily. 

 

“Draco,” greeted Lucius. 

 

“Hello Father,” he replied. “I got your note.” 

 

“Have you been keeping well?” asked his father, dryly, in a voice that was clearly uninterested in how his son was keeping. He did not bother to wait for a reply. “I would assume that you have failed in the task I have given you; otherwise, you would have informed me.” 

 

Draco looked at him dolefully. He began to reply, “I--”, but his father cut him off before he could continue: 

 

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough.” His voice was soft and cold. “What did I ask of you?” 

 

“To find whatever is on the third floor, Father.”

 

He continued, “Is that too still large a task?”

 

“I’m sorry, Father,” said Draco. “I really did go to see. But there’s a dog--a three headed one, and I don’t know how to get through him. There wasn’t even--” 

 

“That’s not good enough,” said Lucius, and looked at his son up and down. “You’re lucky we’re at Hogwarts now. I expect to receive a letter, soon, detailing exactly what you found. There will be consequences.”

 

As quickly as he had come, Lucius Malfoy swept out of the room, leaving Draco both shaking and relieved. 


	10. White

That was it, Draco thought. He simply couldn’t afford to get caught breaking rules again. He had to talk to Professor Snape. 

While Snape was still watchful around him, Draco was grateful that Halloween had not caused him to lose Snape’s trust and regard. Snape still encouraged Pansy and him to work diligently on outside projects. While it couldn’t exactly be called favoritism, there was something to be said for not being among the students whom the professor found insufferable. (Such as Longbottom, Granger, and Potter.) Snape’s disdain for all of them was evident, and it was something beyond his general distaste for Gryffindors. 

As Draco approached his Potions class, he made his plan. He would linger in the classroom until the other students had gone and speak to Snape then. That way, it would seem less formal and less deliberate; Draco’s motives would not be in question. 

However, that plan was soon shattered when Professor Snape tapped him on the shoulder just as Draco walked through the worn oaken door. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, “if you would be so kind as to remain behind this class period.” It was not a question. 

Draco nodded solemnly, agreeing, “Of course, Professor.” He managed to keep his anxiety hidden--so well, in fact, that Pansy looked at him sharply. 

“He didn’t give you an extra project that you’ve been keeping from me, did he?” she asked, sounding downright accusatory. 

As much as Draco enjoyed Pansy’s company, her constant competitiveness tired him. “No,” he said truthfully. In case that hadn’t been convincing enough, he added (less truthfully), “I don’t know what it could be about.” 

Pansy looked skeptical but took his words at face value. 

“Do you want to chart the stars tonight with me?” she asked, dissolving the tension, “Conditions are supposed to be perfect, and we have to do it four times this month anyway for Astronomy.” 

“Sure, yes” he agreed quickly, eager to move onto another topic. He neglected to mention that he had already far surpassed the requirement, simply because he was up late frequently and had little else to do. Besides, he wouldn’t mind observing the stars with Pansy; the sky always seemed to calm him. 

More students filed into the classroom, and Professor Snape began the day’s lesson. The potion they were brewing was not extraordinarily difficult, yet somehow two Gryffindor boys who shared a station still managed to blow up theirs. 

Draco snickered with the rest of the Slytherins when Professor Snape took five points from Gryffindor for their indiscretion. Potter gave him a sharp look in return, but Draco childishly stuck out his tongue. 

The Slytherins had more reason to celebrate when, shortly after Pansy and Draco had finished theirs, Molly Sampras and her partner Lavender successfully brewed their potion. Molly, an ambitious but kind, if not intelligent girl, got along well with most people. It was of little surprise she had no qualms with socializing with members of the other houses. 

Draco marveled at her, a little bit. Somehow she had managed to make everyone like her, and in Draco’s mind, there wasn’t any feat more difficult. Draco would have to talk to her about it, sometime, if he could word it right. “Molly, how do you manipulate people of all houses into liking you?” was a bad conversation starter. 

That being said, Draco noted that he and Pansy’s habit of bragging about being the first to finish the project might have something to do with their lack of popularity. However, feeling magnanimous, he helped Crabbe and Goyle complete theirs as quickly as possible. By the time the end of the class approached, Draco realized that he had spent most of the hour and a half successfully ignoring his anxiety. 

By the time the other students drained from the classroom--some more quickly than others--it was back in full force. 

“What did you want to talk to me about, Professor?” he asked. 

“Draco, is there anything you would like to tell me?” was the careful reply. 

“Yes, Sir, actually.” Draco looked intent. “I wanted to say that I feel badly about what happened and that I feel that I should face the consequences for my actions.” It sounded weak, even to him, but he blustered through it anyway. 

Professor Snape raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. “The consequences?”

“Yes Sir,” he said as evenly as he could muster. He couldn’t afford to be too obvious that he needed his father, specifically, to be informed.

Snape looked at him and Draco was convinced he could see right through him. “Twenty points from Slytherin, then.” He waited a long pause, judging Draco’s reaction. 

“Feel better now?”

Draco simply looked at his professor, realizing a little too slowly that he had been out-schemed. Suddenly, he felt very small. 

Snape looked at him much more sympathetically. “What is it that you need, Draco?” he asked, the vestiges of his earlier judgement all but gone. 

Draco took a deep breath, summoned all his courage, and tried to flesh out the story he’d thought of: “I need my father to know I don’t do everything right,” he said, “that I’m not who he thinks I am. But he won’t listen when I try to tell him.”

Snape looked at him perceptively, and said, “I’m going to give you a chance to explain what you were doing on the third floor on Halloween night.” 

Draco thought it was surprisingly non-accusatory. 

Nevertheless, Draco had prepared an answer for that very question in advance, and he did not hesitate in giving it, “I was curious, and when the troll broke in, I went exploring instead of following the other Slytherins because I wanted to see what was there, and it was the perfect opportunity.”

His father always told him that the simplest explanation was usually the best one, and Draco had extrapolated that this axiom applied to lies, as well. 

“Indubitably,” replied Snape skeptically. His eyes had still not left Draco’s. “And writing a letter of warning to your father will help how?”

Draco blinked slowly and tried to appear as if he had come to a mature realization. Realistically, though, he was nervous and his plan was looking less and less well thought-out . “I want my parents to see me as who I am, and I can’t do that if I don’t take responsibility for my actions, and they have to know that, too.” 

So much for a charismatic “I’ve changed” speech; Draco realized his words were rambling and he was about ready to give up, so instead, he just added, “I got you hurt. I’m sorry.”

Snape nodded at the admission. 

Draco added, “Of course, I don’t want points taken away, or detention, or even my parents to know. It’s just--”

“I see,” interrupted Snape coolly. He was more than aware that Draco was telling half-truths at best. Still, he trusted that Draco had an ulterior motive that was not entirely bad spirited, because no son of Lucius Malfoy would willingly bring the wrath of his father down upon himself without an exceedingly good reason. 

“Very well then,” Snape continued, “Since you apparently deem it necessary to wander around in forbidden corridors, I, as your Head of House, am forced to assign you detention. Your parents will be informed of your…” he hesitated, his voice lowering in inflection, “activities, and twenty points will be taken from Slytherin as I previously suggested.” 

He looked at Draco, his dark eyes still harsh. “Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Draco, trying to pretend he wasn’t a little heartbroken about losing 20 points for his house, “And Sir? I wanted to say, thank you for saving my life.” He stuck his chin up a bit to emphasize just how okay he was with taking responsibility for his actions. 

Snape merely nodded and said, “Go on, now,” an expression of annoyance crossing his face. 

The next morning, Draco got two letters in the mail, which made his heart drop out of fear that one could be from his father. Instead, one was from Luna and the other was a short notice that he would serve detention by cleaning the Trophy Room with Mr. Filch on the following Wednesday. 

The school was alight with excitement that Saturday, for it was the year’s first heavy snowfall, and it was on a half-day of school. Draco poured outside with the rest of them, and even had the good humor to laugh when Fred and George Weasley, two third years, bewitched snowballs to bounce off the back of Professor Quirrell’s turban. 

Draco laughed slightly less when said third years were assigned to detention, presumably at the same time that he would serve. 

It was good fun, though, hurling piles of snow at each other. It almost felt Christmas-y. Pansy stuffed a lump of wet snow down his back, and he pushed her into a snowbank, so he counted them even. 

Meanwhile, Harry and Ron celebrated passing their latest Potions test by making a full sized snow sculpture of Professor Snape. Even Fred had pointed out that the resemblance was uncanny. The only sore spot of the morning was that Hermione had taken ill and was almost certain to be irritated with them for having such a good time without her, even if she probably would be happier reading a book anyway. 

Most of the students went back inside before lunch, cheeks rosy and hands warmed by the light of small heating charms. Many of them had an afternoon class on Saturdays--but Draco felt fortunate because he did not. Instead, he settled down in the Slytherin Common Room to read Luna’s letter and drink some hot chocolate. 

He felt much better than he had in quite some time. Making attempts to fix things, no matter how small those attempts were, always made him feel better. And no matter how much Draco feared his father, he couldn’t wait to be home. 

Just as he propped his feet up to begin, though, Molly marched through the Common Room, smirking and otherwise looking mighty pleased with herself. She parked herself next to Draco and grinned again. 

“What,” said Draco, taking the bait. 

“My experiment was an absolute success,” she said, “I’m going to be in loads of trouble.” She sprung up off the couch by Draco and went to the girl’s dormitories, humming to herself. 

“You’re crazy,” he muttered, and then, more loudly, called after her, “You were sorted into the wrong house, Sampras.” 

“Stuff it, Malfoy,” she yelled back. 

Draco was fond of Molly. So was everyone, though. She did seem to be remarkably skilled at getting on everyone’s nerves--and no one truly minded. Half of the house was still confused as to how she got into Slytherin when half the time she more solidly resembled those in Hufflepuff. 

Finally, Draco unfolded Luna’s letter. 

Draco!   
How lovely it was for you to write to me! My father’s doing better, thanks for asking. It really is quite fortunate. How’s Hogwarts? I hope you’ll talk to the Grey Lady for me, I do miss her chats. 

Who on earth was the Grey Lady? He shook his head and continued reading anyway. 

I’m sorry I missed the Quidditch game, I heard Harry was terrific. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you remind me of each other any time I talk to either of you. It’s awfully strange. 

He pushed back a wave of irritation at that, but decided to give Luna the benefit of the doubt. 

You’re probably angry about that. It’s alright, I don’t mind. Find anything interesting around lately? If not, I recommend simply wandering the halls aimlessly, especially at night. Who cares if it’s against the rules? There’s always some ghost or room ready to tell you something fascinating. 

“How did rooms tell one something interesting?” thought Draco. However, on a second assessment, he realized that the Room of Requirement certainly seemed to count. It told him everything--he’d have to tell Luna, or someone who cared, about the mirror. 

I hope this year is good for you. I think about you every time I dust on top of my wardrobe. Good luck with it all.   
-Luna. 

He folded the paper back up and stowed it in his bookbag, and sat there smiling softly for a moment. Only Luna would think of something in particular while dusting. 

Molly came galumphing back down the stairs, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Who’s the special girl?” she asked, grinning. “Or boy, I suppose.” 

Draco looked at her in shock. “I don’t understand,” he said. 

“People only look like that when they’re reading a letter from someone they really like. Give it here!” 

Flabbergasted, Draco maintained, “I’m not--no! What are you talking about?”

“So is it a girl?”

 

“Molly, you’re insufferable. And yes, I was reading a letter from an old friend, I don’t have a crush on her!”

“So you are gay?”

“Molly, for Merlin’s sake, what are you talking about?”

“Awfully defensive, aren’t you?” she teased. 

“Seriously Molly--”

“Don’t worry.” She winked. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

She went to leave again, and he called after her again, “Molly, what secret?”

He sat there, holding his head, having no comprehension of what just happened. 

Just moments later, Pansy walked into the Common Room and noticed Draco’s obvious confusion. “Molly must have been by,” she noted. 

“How does that girl have so much energy? Why is she in Slytherin? I have so many questions!” Draco said, sounding genuinely angry. 

Pansy laughed slightly, but looked at him tentatively as if she had a question herself. 

“What is it?” he asked finally, removing his head from his hands and looking up at her. 

“Molly said you have a girlfriend you write letters to. Is that true?”

“Of course not, Pansy!” cried Draco, even more exasperated. “What other nonsense did she tell you? I was just sitting here, smiling, for once, and she had to go and ruin it!”

“You were smiling?” asked Pansy, obviously more relaxed. “That must have been it. It is rare, you know.”

Draco just made a tsking noise in response. 

“Molly got detention this morning,” said Pansy. “She wouldn’t tell me why, but she’s obviously very proud of it. Apparently she’s serving it this Wednesday with a couple of Gryffindor idiots.” 

He decided nodding and acting disinterested was the right move, so he did that. Pansy smiled at him anyway, and said, “If something’s bothering you, you can talk about it. Really.”

Draco tried not to let his reaction show, but his immediate reaction was cynical. You and the rest of the Slytherin probably wouldn’t like me if you knew who I really was. 

As if reading his thoughts, she continued, “We like who you are. You’re allowed to be a jerk sometimes, because we also know you have good qualities.” 

“Who is we?” asked Draco. 

Pansy shrugged. “People, I guess,” she replied. “Me.” 

“Thanks, I guess,” he replied. “But things are better, I think. And--” he began, smirking, “I’m not writing letters to some secret girlfriend. Obviously.”

“Whatever,” said Pansy, but her words lacked the usual bite to them. 

“I have to do some homework,” said Draco, “This Transfigurations paper is bloody annoying.”

“The Animagus one?”

“That very one,” said Draco, and he began pulling out his papers to work on it. “Plus, I better get ahead. Molly’s not the only one with detention on Wednesday.” He said it smiling, as if divulging a secret, and Pansy squealed slightly. 

“Draco Malfoy! A troublemaker? What did you do, you simply have to tell me!” she cried. 

“I have to keep my sense of mystery,” he said, putting a finger over his lips. “No one must know.”


	11. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been slowing down; I have up to chapter 15 done but I've barely had time to turn around with school starting. THanks for reading as always!

Chapter 11: 

“Draco Malfoy, as I live and breathe,” said Molly, with shock only partially feigned. “And what might you be doing here at five o’clock on a Wednesday?”

“Same as you, Molly, although probably for less questionable reasons,” said Draco coyly. He didn’t bother asking her to keep his attendance covert; that would just spur her to make a bigger deal about it among the first years. 

“How cute!” she squealed, “Baby’s got his first detention. It’s loads of fun with Fred and George. We get along swimmingly; you’ll see! They’ll be late, though; they're always late.” 

“So what did you do?” asked Draco, intent on keeping her occupied and hoping she would never again refer to him as a ‘baby’.. 

“Apparently, it’s against school rules to own love potions, and even more so to modify them, and Professor Snape tells me I’m lucky to not have my wand taken away for testing them on other people.”

She hummed as if calculating something, but it was cheerful as always. “Lavender’s been in the hospital wing for three days now, but Madame Pomfrey says it won’t take too much longer before she stops trying to snog her work desk.”

Draco must have looked as horrified as he felt, because Molly continued, winking, “Love potions do work on inanimate objects, too.” She smiled brilliantly, as if she had discovered something very personally satisfying. Draco supposed she had. 

“Isn’t Lavender your friend?” he said, not sure if, as a Slytherin, he should be impressed, or, as a human being, he should be horrified.

“Of course she’s my friend! I’m just getting back at her for spreading a rumor that I have a crush on Ron Weasley.”

Draco recoiled, and Molly continued. “My point exactly. Besides, Lavender will survive, probably try to get back at me, and I’ll have another opportunity to scheme.”

“Clever,” said Draco, actually thinking it to be anything but. 

“Why are you here?” asked Molly, and Draco opened his mouth to explain, when he was rescued by the hobbling presence of Mr. Filch, who had arrived to set them to work.

“Where are the two red-heads,” he asked in his gravelly voice. “Back in the good old days, we used to--”

In that moment, the twins skidded into the room, grinning. “Here…”

“And here,” finished George. 

“Your job is simple,” said Filch, only looking moderately annoyed at their tardiness. “Clean.”

He gesticulated towards the enormous room full of trophies. “No magic, and you keep at it ‘til you’re done,” he added gleefully. “So get to it.”

The four of them looked at each other and sighed in a moment of unanimity. But Fred and George were rarely glum, and immediately sprang into action. They seemed to think that “Clean the trophies,” meant something more like, “Play catch with the trophies, sort of clean them, and put them back.”

Draco shrugged. Embarrassingly enough, he didn’t know any cleaning spells--so maybe he was a little spoiled, he thought, but that’s not important--so he felt indifferent to Filch’s “no-magic” decree. 

They looked at the pile of Muggle cleaning supplies in the middle of the room, and got started almost immediately. Molly seemed determined to engage herself in conversation with the other three, and Fred and George were receptive. They really were quite typical Gryffindors, in the least annoying way (compared to Potter, anyway), Draco thought. 

For a time, it seemed they all forgot they were house rivals. While Draco was quiet, the other three laughed and joked while they cleaned. Fred especially seemed to think that Molly’s experiment was brilliant, whereas George had frowned a bit, considering the implications before deciding he agreed. 

Draco zoned out for a while, but when he returned to awareness, Molly was explaining her life story to the others. 

“I’m adopted by Muggles,” said Molly frankly--few Slytherins would admit to that; it would be social suicide for anyone but Molly-- “But as soon as I turned out magical, my mum revealed that she was secretly a squib and knew all about magic. My dad was so angry. It’s a miracle they let me go to Hogwarts any how.”

“Blimey,” said George. “Fred and I never had it tough; there were a lot of us and we all knew we were magic since day one.”

“Oi, Malfoy,” interrupted Fred in a voice that was just a touch louder and higher than his brother’s. “We were having a heart-to-heart, here, care to join?”

Draco was startled; he had almost forgot that he was actually there instead of just eavesdropping. “I dunno,” he said, “not much to say.”

Molly pushed, “What are you here for?”

“Well,” he began sarcastically, “My parents decided they wanted a child, and--”

“Really, Draco?” said Molly. “Why are you at detention, you dimwit!”

“Well,” he said, willing to explain if only vaguely, “I asked if I could come.” Which--wasn’t exactly false, and exuded just enough mystery, in Draco’s opinion. 

Molly rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure, Mr. ‘I do extra projects for Snape because he’s already decided I’m his favorite student.’”

“That’s very specific,” said Draco. “Pansy does them, too.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not his favorite,” retorted Molly.

Draco replied more quietly, “It was Snape who gave me the detention.” He immediately regretted it, because he remembered that Molly couldn’t keep her mouth shut and would probably tell Pansy--and then the both of them would bombard him with questions. And Fred and George shouldn’t know. It was private. 

Surprisingly, though, Molly responded with immediate compassion. Apparently, how much Draco cared about Snape’s opinion of him was common knowledge. 

Fred added, tossing a trophy for his brother to wipe, “Although, it does mean you probably deserved it, you little git. If Snape’s giving out detentions to his Slytherins--”

“Apart from Molly,” said George, “Snape gives Molly detentions all the time.”

“If Snape’s giving out detentions to his Slytherins apart from Molly,” repeated Fred. 

“Then we’re all doomed,” finished George. 

The time went more slowly after that, and Draco found himself confused to be enjoying the company of none other than two Weasleys. Draco’s father had, of course, done his utmost to instill in Draco the knowledge that all Weasleys were insufferable. 

Maybe Ron wasn’t so bad? He thought for a moment before remembering to constant look of distaste that Ron’s face contorted into whenever Draco was around. 

He promptly decided that Fred and George were probably an exception to the rule. 

A heavy sound rang through the room as the clock struck nine. They were nearly finished, and Molly was back to repeating her life story to George, the more patient of the Weasley twins. 

“My birth parents named me Mallika,”she said, “It’s a pretty common name in India. And my adopted parents didn’t want to change it, so here I am. I pretty much always go by Molly, though.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. Molly clearly had every intention of making detention into socialization time, and somehow it was working. It seemed like a waste of time to him, but then again Molly did spend a good deal of her time in detention; she may as well make the most of it. 

George had begun explaining how he and his brother had started playing Quidditch. Halfway into their first year at Hogwarts, apparently, Professor McGonagall approached the both of them and encouraged them to try out for Beater positions the following year. 

Fred added, “We don’t think it was because she thought we’d be any good. It was more of a desperate plea for us to find another way to use up our energy.”

“Hasn’t worked much,” quipped George. “We do get to beat some sense into people though.”

“I bet you’d be a fair Beater, Molly,” said Fred. 

She smiled in appreciation, and admitted, “I was thinking of trying out next year.”

“You should,” said George, “although it hasn’t helped us stay out of trouble.”

“The business makes sure of that,” said Fred, darkly, as if the business were selling painful hexes. 

“What business?” asked Draco, quite intrigued for one of the first times that evening. 

“No--” began George.

“You wouldn’t be interested,” explained Fred. 

Draco shrugged his shoulders and tried to reassure himself that the wave of anger from their exclusion was perfectly normal; it was normal to feel the urge to hex them until they would cough up the secret. 

Fred and George looked at his expression and laughed. 

“He looks constipated,” muttered Fred. 

“I think we’ve finally finished,” said Molly, trying to divert the conversation. It was indeed true. When they stepped back to look at the trophies in their cases, each one gleamed. 

“See Draco?” she said, “Detention’s not that bad.”

“You’re not as bad as you look, Malfoy,” said Fred, still jovial despite Draco’s dark expression.”

“See you next time, Sampras,” said George, and with that, the two pairs went their separate ways to their respective common rooms. 

For the first time in a while, Draco felt calm. He fell asleep in seconds. 

When he woke up, it was early morning, and he thought it was almost funny that he had more problems than ever and still had managed to sleep well for the first time in ages. 

He dressed quickly even though he would not have class for another three hours and decided to walk slowly to the owlery to send his reply to Luna. 

It struck him as strange, though, that an owl was waiting for him when he got there. The envelope was blank and unmarked, not even labelled. It looked official, on thick, expensive paper. For a moment, he feared it was a notice of his expulsion; maybe Snape hadn’t kept his secret, maybe… He unfolded it slowly, apprehensively. 

A small piece of paper fell out that read only, “My dear, the key is in us all.” 

It was a letter from his mother. He was not sure how he knew, but as soon as he touched the ink on the paper, it smelled vaguely of her perfume. The words on the page, however, weren’t words. They didn’t mean anything. 

q juk czykrlfeo ew uysr zq euul hlaxrhwd. jzce zstspz vm snrcg ool aww qf zanp. ow ail wzczl sgu lcm ail awzvr. mfaap qf sguc ltys. qof lzr vwiyr brmleo. jwh gmse qivf. a ax disy. te mciiy ey olzycfg. oz vbn jeawg. 

Draco’s first reaction was anger; his second was fear. He needed to find out what it said, but it was obviously code. And his mother was very creative when it came to code; Draco was not. 

What if his mother needed him?

Once the initial shock wore off, though, it occurred to him that his mother was a very private person. That privacy had lead her to correspond with her sister, Bellatrix, usually only in coded letters. Therefore, this letter must be different from the weekly ones he had been getting. 

It must be something that his mother couldn’t let his father know. 

He would write to her as usual with no indication of this letter, he resolved. And in the meantime, he would crack the code. 

He mailed Luna’s letter and stuffed his mother’s in his book bag. It would take him some time, and his mother would know that. It would be okay. 

***  
That afternoon, he went to quidditch like he always did, but he brought the letter with him. It tried his focus to attempt to remain hidden from the players, study quidditch, and make some sense of the letter. Clearly, staring at it for several hours throughout the day was doing little good. 

It really was unfortunate that the letter hadn’t started with his name, because that would have made everything easier. And what was “The key is in us all?” supposed to mean, anyway?

Maybe it was supposed to be difficult. He just hoped that once he figured out what it was trying to say, the words underneath would at least make sense.


	12. Burgundy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's short. I might keep writing this, but it depends how my exams go!

Professor Snape swirled the wine in his crystal glass, the perfect picture of a sommelier. He considered that Professor McGonagall would probably take him up on his invitation to join him. 

Besides, Snape had the best wine collection for miles. It was stored in perfect conditions within the dungeon, and he had wine of diverse ages--from a few months to a hundred years old. The bottles were mostly covered in dust, but they were wonderfully preserved. He kept them dark and dry, with cooling spells to keep them at exactly 12 degrees. 

Professor McGonagall, naturally, was aware he had the best wine. All the professors were, and some of the students, too. There was a reason he had put up dozens of wards to both hide the cellar’s presence and deter those who happened to find it. Fred and George Weasley, though only thirteen, had come dangerously close to breaking through just weeks earlier. 

He’d meant to fix that, but the month since Halloween had been harried. He had not told a soul, not even McGonagall, about what had occurred that night, even when she asked him what had happened to his leg. 

He had even healed his leg himself to avoid Madame Pomfrey’s questions. It had taken hours of work brewing potions while in an extraordinary amount of pain, and then four days of slow muscle regrowth. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat. 

A limp rather interfered with his presence, he thought. It was harder to terrify first years when one could not swiftly sweep into a room. If this injury impeded class discipline, Malfoy would definitely be hearing about it. 

His students had stared for a while, and Snape let them stare--they were hardly in the position to ask him about it. Snape had other things to worry about, anyway, and not even his favorite students’ curiosity or disapproval could distract him. 

His stream of consciousness was interrupted by a firm rap on the door. Indeed, when he swung the door open with a flick of the wrist, it was Professor McGonagall, precisely four minutes past the time for which he had invited her. 

She looked hesitant at first, which was strange on her severe face. She had been at Hogwarts so much longer than he that Snape still found it difficult to call her by her first name. 

“Severus,” she greeted, “I heard that you were opening up your cellar this evening.”

Snape gestured with his wine glass, and summoned another glass to offer his colleague some. “It’s a good vintage, you’ll find,” he said, and he meant it--although all of Snape’s wine was exquisite. That was why he collected it. 

“It feels like you’ve been here longer than ten years,” said McGonagall, quite conversationally. 

“It feels like you’ve been here longer than forty years,” he replied with a touch of a smile, “Although in my defense, I came here when I was eleven and it seems I’ve failed to leave since. Even my apprenticeship was here.”

“I suppose that’s true,” agreed McGonagall, and she raised her glass to him in a miniature toast. She tilted the glass up to her face and sniffed it briefly, as if trying to discover its ingredients. Finally, she took a sip, and murmured, “this must be a tempranillo.”

“You know your grapes,” said Snape, “Most of the professors here can’t tell Spanish from French, and believe me, the difference is considerable.” 

“Normally I’m partial to the French style,” admitted McGonagall, “particularly Burgundy; the regional differences are enormous after all. But this is really quite good.”

“One thing that wizards could never do as well as Muggles,” admitted Snape. “Wine takes more patience than most wizards imagine. They think with a bit of wand waving, they can create art.”

McGonagall smiled. “Your Potions background reveals itself yet again.” She took another sip. 

“And your Scottish one. When one is raised on whiskey I would imagine the more full-bodied wines would be more appealing.”

“Of course,” said McGonagall. She let the conversation lapse for a moment--neither she nor Snape thrived on idle chatter, but they did enjoy each other’s company. It was simply that their respect for each other rarely seemed to materialize into socialization. 

“I must say,” she continued, “I am incredibly ready for most of the students to go home. Although--”

She trailed off, but Snape smiled. “Most of your troublemakers seem to be remaining.”

“If by most, you mean Harry Potter, than you’d be correct. But some of the other students have not yet decided,” she replied. 

Snape resisted from muttering “insufferable.” Instead he smiled wanly. “Most of the Slytherins go home,” he said, “Although there are always exceptions.”

They fell into a companionable silence and sipped their wine. 

Finally, McGonagall said, “I am glad you extended your invitation.”

Snape tilted his head in agreement. “It had been too long.” 

McGonagall wanted to ask if anything had happened with Draco. She wanted to ask how he felt about teaching the son of a woman he had once loved. She wanted to be straightforward, deliberate--but knew all too clearly that such questions would be answered of their own accord, or not at all. 

“I think Malfoy will try out for Seeker next year,” said Snape. “He seems rather dedicated both to that goal and in making sure no one is aware of it.” In the moment, both seemed to forget that they were the head of rival sports teams--it was, after all, inconsequential. 

“I used to be a fine player myself,” she admitted. “A chaser.” 

“I never had the proclivity for sport,” replied Snape almost enviously. “I suppose that gives you the advantage in terms of our teams.”

“I do have an eye for talent,” she said, smiling. 

“And apparently a sizeable enough income for you to provide first years with brooms,” retorted Snape with an arched eyebrow. “It was hardly subtle, you sent it in the mail.”

“It’s done us well, so far,” she said mischievously, referencing the first game in which Slytherin was soundly trounced. 

Professor Snape looked vaguely annoyed. “Your rivalry with Slytherin started before I was born, yet you still are curiously competitive.”

“I took a foul,” she said. “Totally illegal, and apparently I’m lucky to not be completely paralyzed. But I think I’m most angry that it lost us the game.”

“I never did understand Gryffindor priorities,” he muttered in return. 

“You say that as if you believe we don’t have any,” she said, sounding quite surprised. 

Snape poured them both more wine. “Lucius Malfoy has contacted me yet again,” he said, moving on from the previous topic. “He’s informed me that he’d like to have a short meeting before he comes to pick Draco up this December.”

“I do not envy you for your students,” she replied. “Nor their parents.”

“One benefit of encouraging Muggle-born house members is not having to deal with their parents,” agreed Snape. “If I had any say in it--”

McGonagall replied a bit harshly, “I rather think you do have more say in it than you believe, Severus. You are their Head of House and they respect you.”

“Fear is not the same as respect,” said Snape simply.


	13. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i know I suck

He was going home in four short days, and Draco was pretending that the fear was gone, that they’d just have a good Christmas together as a family like they used to. Draco had been very young, but his memories of jumping up on his parents’ bed Christmas morning were among his happiest. His father would even smile and close his eyes in contentment when he smelled plum pudding baking. Draco remembered feeling light and happy. 

His father’s baseline was cruelty, but Draco could remember a time when it was not so. His harshness had once been rare, and when Lucius Malfoy was happy, life was wonderful. The world seemed so full of hope, which made it all the worse when he crashed down and brought the whole family with him. But that wouldn’t happen this Christmas, Draco assured himself. 

Father--his real father, not the cruel one--always came back in time for Christmas. They could be a family together again, and Draco could ask them what the letter meant. They would forget all about whatever the Dark Lord wanted, and whatever it was that Draco had failed to find. 

They would have feasts with Father’s ministry friends, and Mother would take them all out to the garden to watch the stars. When Draco was lucky, and it was the right time of year, she’d show him the constellation he was named after. 

Mother would tell him the story of the Dragon, and how he was betrayed by the Gods and ran away to the stars to find peace. How Hercules chased him there and yet he still watched over the world. It made him feel heroic, and he liked it when she told him that whenever he was lonely, he could look up to the sky and know that his namesake was watching over him, and Mother, and anyone on earth that he loved. 

It was nice, sitting on his bed, watching through the dormitory window the snow fall on top of the frozen lake. The snow on top of the ice created precise layers that he loved counting. 

He hoped the Giant Squid wasn’t too cold, but then chuckled at himself for thinking such a thing. The Giant Squid had been there long before Draco was born, and would be there long after he left Hogwarts. How relieving that was, to have a constant in a world rife with instability. 

He jostled himself out of his reverie and pulled his mother’s letter out of his bag and onto his lap. He had tried nearly every decoding or revealing spell in the beginner’s book, but he knew that even he found the right spell, he might not be capable of it. 

How frustrating. He resisted the urge to set the paper on fire. 

He had to come up with something else. Sure, he didn’t want anyone else to read it, but clearly Draco was not able to do it himself. Like any good Slytherin, he knew his shortcomings. Although, this was definitely avoidable, he considered. His mother had made a point of showing him some ciphers, and he hadn’t focused. 

There was one she had told him about. It started with a “v,” he was certain. Vill--Villa? Maybe? 

Villanelle, perhaps. He was sure that was wrong, but it really did start with “v.” Probably. He just needed to find someone that knew something (anything) about ciphers. Whoever it was, maybe he could bargain with them and exchange his Potions talents for their decoding. 

But who to ask?

Like every other first year who had needed something in the first semester, a thought came to him. When people didn’t know who to ask, there was one person that seemed to know nothing except who to ask. 

Namely, Molly Sampras. They hadn’t talked much since detention, but she had been busy. She was preparing to go home for Christmas in between running a profitable black market trade of skills and goods among the houses. Few other people had the precociousness to make connections with every house, convince them to help her, and trade skills among them. 

All for a sizeable profit, of course. And somehow, Molly managed to emerge from every transaction with one more thing she needed. 

She really did make an excellent middleman. 

As it was, she was clamoring loudly in the Common room, explaining her family’s Muggle traditions to baffled pure-bloods. 

“Muggles celebrate Christmas?” asked Crabbe. 

“Indians celebrate Christmas?” asked an even more baffled and insensitive Goyle. 

Molly had avoided rolling her eyes on the first one, but by the second time, she exclaimed, “Have you never met an Indian person in your life, you morons?”

They looked at her in stunned silence. 

“Racist little schmucks,” she said, although her words lacked any sort of bite. “Besides,” she continued, “I’m the last person you should ask when it comes to Indian culture. My parents are British, their parents are British, and their parents were probably British, too! My appearance doesn’t change that.”

Goyle grinned sheepishly at her reprimand, but didn’t reply. Draco knew in that instant that he fancied her more than Goyle had fancied anything in his entire life. Except perhaps food. 

As Molly turned to make a theatrical exit, Draco closed in behind her. “Say, Molly,” he said as he approached. “Do you know anyone who knows ciphers?”

“I’ll ask around,” she said simply, understanding immediately that it was business. 

“Can you--please keep it quiet?” he specified. 

“Professional courtesy,” she replied, “I do swear by it you know.” Her smile was back. “I’ll find you a decoder, if that’s what you need. Now, I might need a couple things too.”

“You wouldn’t do a friend a favor?”

“You’re the one that’s denying me a favor, as far as I see it,” she said. 

“Transfiguration essay, or Potions?”

“Transfiguration,” said Molly immediately. “McGonagall hates me.”

“There might be a reason for that,” said Draco bitingly. 

“Probably not,” replied Molly. “Anyway, it should be two days or so. Time sensitive?”

“A bit,” he replied. 

“Understood,” she said in return. “I might need to see the code, but if privacy is necessary I’m sure the other party will understand. And they don’t need to know it’s you asking.”

Draco had prepared for the evidentiality that someone else would have to read the note. 

“All right,” he said. “Fancy lunch?”

“Always,” said Molly, and she jumped up to join him. 

***

They hated him, he thought as he sat down next to Molly. Molly didn’t, but the rest of them did. Draco felt sure in that instant and was hit by the impression that the whole Great Hall was watching him with glinting eyes. 

He sat down, reigning in how self-conscious he felt despite the fact that nothing had happened. Molly beside him was oblivious and characteristically carefree. She waved at Crabbe and Goyle, who moved to sit around Draco and her. 

Crabbe and Goyle really weren’t so bad, he thought suddenly. They were loyal, anyway, and wanted Draco to succeed. 

Draco glanced over at Molly and saw her scanning the Great Hall. 

“Looking for someone?” he asked. 

“You were the one that wanted to keep it covert,” she hissed, “So shut up!”

“Oh,” he said, feeling rather deflated. She got up to talk to someone at the Hufflepuff table, and Draco smirked at Goyle’s look of disappointment. 

Goyle, in an act of surprisingly awareness, noticed, and commented, “I dunno what it is about her. She’s just--”

“She’s remarkable, all right,” agreed Draco. “And contrary to what the rest of our house seems to think, definitely a Slytherin.”

“She’s smart,” too, said Goyle. “I’m not, but I can tell she is.”

Draco didn’t disagree, but he added--perhaps unhelpfully-- “Just study more.”

“Academics aren’t it for me. Crabbe, too,” he replied. “The problem is, neither of us know what is.”

“What do your fathers want?”

“Mine is in business with your father. I think he wants something similar for me, but he doesn’t know how to make success for himself. He just knows the right people, so that’s what he tells me. ‘Know the right people, Greg, and then it doesn’t matter if you’ve got what it takes.’” 

“He wanted you to be in Slytherin, then?”

“‘Course. How else would I meet the right people?” Draco smiled and Greg marked the end of the short conversation by shoveling something in his mouth--it looked like chicken. Draco really had forgotten that Crabbe and Goyle weren’t that bad. Just a little boring. 

Draco swiveled his head to find Molly in the crowded Great Hall, and she winked at him over the head of a Gryffindor she was talking to--Percy Weasley, apparently. She turned her head back to the conversation, and nodded twice. 

She really was a bit of a wonder, Draco thought. 

He was lost in his own concerns for a few moments as he pushed food around on his plate. He never was one who ate much when he was worried--and his first few months at Hogwarts had seen his worry skyrocket. 

Suddenly, Molly was back, hand on his shoulder; Draco attempted not to flinch despite being caught off guard. “Give me the code after lunch,” she said, “And I’m hanging out with someone this afternoon who can solve it. He thinks.”

Draco felt a wave of relief. He could figure out the letter, and then he could go home.


	14. Alabaster

f“What’s that you’ve got, Ron?” asked Harry, peering over his shoulder. 

“A favor for a friend of mine,” he replied, “I told her I’d take a peek at it now since I don’t have to worry about packing.”

“But aren’t you going home?”

“Seems not, mate,” replied Ron, “My parents decided to take a surprise trip to Romania to visit Charlie. Looks like I’m staying here this Christmas.”

Harry didn’t bother to hide the smile that spread over his face. “That’s brilliant, Ron.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, “I think it is. I thought I’d be disappointed, but it’ll be fun. I’ve never had a Christmas away from home.”

“I’ve never had a real Christmas!”

Ron looked at him. “You know, sometimes you’re downright scary.”

It was Harry’s turn to look confused. “How am I scary?”

“You’ve had some weird experiences, I guess,” qualified Ron. 

“Says you! You grew up in a house that’s completely brill!”

“It’s alright, I guess. It’s normal when you’re used to it.”

“It’s not just alright, Ron!”

Ron rolled his eyes and affectionately hit Harry on the shoulder. “Now just sit there and be quiet for a bit, I have to figure this out.”

Harry resisted the urge to ask him more questions, and instead wandered off to find Hermione--she was leaving the next morning by the Hogwarts Express, so her parents could pick her up at King’s Cross. 

Harry knocked on the door to the girls’ dormitories--where Hermione had said she’d be, packing. She swung the door open for him. Nobody else was in the room. 

“Ron not keeping you entertained enough?” quipped Hermione. “I’m almost done packing, but I’m not sure I’ve got everything.”

Harry smiled easily. “Ron’s on about some code thing that he’s doing for a friend. Who knew he cared about that stuff?”

Hermione shrugged. “I bet I could do it. How hard could it be?”

“Maybe you should take a break from packing and go see?”

“I think so,” said Hermione. “Oh, but before I forget. Give this to Ron for me on Christmas?” She handed him a neatly wrapped package, and Harry grinned. 

“‘Course,” he said. “Come on then!”

They went back downstairs to bother Ron.

“Have you figured it out yet then?” asked Hermione, sounding irritated to the untrained ear. (More likely, she was simply feeling a little competitive). 

“I’m close,” muttered Ron. “If it is a popular cipher type, then it has to be a Vigenere. But I’ve no idea what the cipher key is. I need to talk to Molly.”

“Any idea what that means?” asked Harry, and Hermione shook her head as Ron brushed out of the room, presumably to find Molly.

***

Ron found himself by the Slytherin common room before he could consider what he was doing. He talked to the portrait of the ancient king--named Friederick, apparently--for a couple moments out of politeness, before asking if Molly was there. 

The king rolled his eyes, and said, “I’m not a butler, you know.”

“Please?” asked Ron. “It’s urgent.”

“You can’t go in, you’re not Slytherin and you don’t have the password,” replied the king. 

“Believe me I have no desire to go in. Can you just--”

It was at just that moment when Draco Malfoy opened up the portrait to leave the Common Room. Ron jumped back from the swinging portrait and internally cursed his luck. 

“What are you doing here, Weasley?” It was hardly a question, and Malfoy always managed to make Ron’s name sound like a hex. 

Ron allowed himself to appear instantly disgusted. “I was looking for Molly, you twit.”

Malfoy sneered at him--not just because he couldn’t think of a reply. 

“So? Is she in there?” asked Ron again before Draco turned away.

“Why? You fancy her like every other imbecile in Gryffindor does?” 

“Not especially,” replied Ron. “I tend to prefer people who don’t put scheming above friends. Now is she in there or not?”

“Check yourself,” snapped Malfoy, and Ron did just that. Malfoy looked a little surprised--he’d no intention for Ron to actually check--when Ron held open the portrait and clambered inside. 

Sure enough, there was Molly, sitting--quietly for once--on a worn leather couch. 

“Molly,” he said, “Can we talk outside?”

Molly smiled and agreed, not looking at all disturbed by Ron’s presence in the Common Room. Crabbe and Goyle, on the other hand, looked positively green at the idea. Molly and Ron walked out of the room together. 

“I’ve figured out what kind of cipher it is,” he hissed as soon as they were in the hallway. “But the thing is, I need a key. This is a letter to you, right?”

She nodded without hesitation. “Do you have any idea who sent it?”

“Sort of, but not enough to guess,” she replied. “I think it came with another paper, though. I need to check. Wait here.”

It surprised Ron that she did not return to her Common Room--instead she near sprinted down the halls in the direction Malfoy had gone, and disappeared around a corner. 

He didn’t wait longer than four or five minutes before Molly returned, high-spirited and quick-moving as ever. 

“I got it! The key is something inside of us that makes us who we are. This is the paper it came with.’” 

Ron unfolded the paper and thought long and hard. “The key is in us all,” he repeated. “Hmm. I’ll have to think about this.”

He returned slowly to the Gryffindor common room, still murmuring the words to himself every so often. 

“Did you find Molly?” asked Hermione. Harry and she were sitting beside each other on the couch, working separately. Hermione was reading a frightfully large book. 

“What do you think the key is in us all means?” asked Ron abruptly. 

“Maybe it means ‘follow your heart’ or something,” replied Harry. 

“There’s no famous quote that says that?” asked Hermione. 

“Dunno,” replied Ron. “Aren’t you the one with all the famous quotes memorized?”

“Not all of them, Ron, obviously. There are far too many”

“Obviously,” echoed Ron. “You just happen to always know exactly what needs to be known.” 

“Well--” 

“What if it just means that the ‘key’ is literally ‘in us all?’” interrupted Harry. 

“Seems sort of obvious, now that you say that,” said Ron. “Now shove off, I need to focus.”

“Now you need to focus? Where’s that focus for all our midterm exams!” 

“You helped with those,” he retorted. 

“Well clearly I wouldn’t have had to if you just focused yourself!” said Hermione, exasperated. 

“Come on, Hermione,” said Harry, doing his best to diffuse the situation. “Let’s finish your packing.”

Ron was left alone with the first sentence of the cryptic message. 

q juk czykrlfeo ew uysr zq euul hlaxrhwd. 

The cipher worked like a basic shifting cipher, except instead of just shifting the letters a given amount, the number shifted would rotate. So if the key was ‘inusall,’ then it was a simple case of subtracting specific sums from the letters. It wouldn’t be difficult; just tedious. 

“I-w-a-s-c-o-n-c-e-r-n-e-d-to-h-e-a-r-w-h-a-t-h-a-p-p-e-n-e-d.” 

He looked at the words scrawled on the side of his parchment paper, and almost shouted. 

It had worked. 

“I was concerned to hear of what happened,” it read. “Your father is angry but all is fine. Do not worry, you are not alone. Snape is your ally. You are being tested. You must fail. I am safe. Be brave my darling. Do not reply.”

“What in all creation have I gotten myself into?” Ron muttered. 

“Harry?” He yelled, too transfixed to do anything but sit there and stare at the words. “Harry, come look at this!”

Harry came down the stairs at a startling pace, Hermione in his wake. 

“Harry,” Ron hissed, as soon as he was in speaking distance, “I don’t know what it is but it sounds like trouble.” 

Harry scanned the message over Ron’s shoulder, and Hermione pushed next to him so she could see, too. 

Immediately, Harry asked, “Whose is this? Why would Snape be an ally?”

“What if it has something to do with Death Eaters?” said Ron. “It’s their sort that talk about allies and tests and death, and god knows what else--”

“Don’t be silly, Ron,” said Hermione, “There aren’t any Death Eaters anymore. They died with You-Know-Who or they were sent to Azkaban.” 

“Not all of them,” defended Ron. “A lot of them have their children here at Hogwarts. It’s no surprise which house they’re in, either.”

“Whose is it,” repeated Harry. “You must have some idea.”

“Molly gave it to me to decode. It’s gotta be hers,” said Ron, but even he sounded a little skeptical. This didn’t sound like the sort of thing Molly would be involved in.

“It doesn’t have to be hers,” insisted an annoyed Hermione. “She does favors for everyone, and gets stuff out of it too.” She sounded more than a little disgusted. 

“Hermione, you make it sound like she’s running a black market! She just trades things that people need,” retorted Ron. 

“That’s what a black market is! And besides, what do you owe her for?” replied Hermione. 

“Who cares what I owe her for?” replied Ron. 

“I care!” 

“Guys, can we please just focus on the issue here?” interrupted Harry. “If it’s from Molly, it really could be anyone's.” Hermione shot Ron a look. 

“Probably a first year, though,” admitted Harry. 

“Let’s think about this reasonably,” said Hermione. “We know it has to be from a mother, and probably the mother of a Slytherin. It can’t be all that dangerous.”

“You don’t know that!” objected Ron. 

“It’s a fair enough guess,” said Harry. 

“I guess I wouldn’t want other students poking around it if it were my family business,” said Ron. “Maybe I should just leave it alone and give the translation back to Molly.” 

“Better make a copy of it anyway,” Hermione suggested.

“And we’ll keep an eye on things,” added Harry. 

They did just that.

***

When it was time for Hermione to leave, Harry and Ron saw her out of the Great Hall, and then returned for dinner. 

“Feels weird that she’s gone,” said Ron. 

“You two spend all your time bickering,” replied Harry. “Of course it’s odd to lose your rival.”

“We’re hardly rivals; she always wins,” Ron said begrudgingly. 

Harry laughed. “Don’t worry, Ron, we’ll have a good Christmas here.”

They lapsed into a happy silence as they began to eat dinner. It was at that moment that Malfoy walked past, pushing a trolley full of supplies and clearly dressed to go home. He sneered at Ron and Harry as he passed them, and Ron couldn’t help mentioning, “When his nose goes like that he looks like a ferret.” 

Malfoy stopped abruptly, turned on his heel, and spat, “At least I’m wanted at home for Christmas, unlike you two daft twits.” He stomped away before Harry and Ron could reply.

***

Christmas morning dawned and Harry was reluctant to wake up. Holidays had never felt that special to him, and this was no exception--so he thought. However, that wouldn’t stop him from getting a bit more sleep. 

He changed his mind, later. There was a gift from Ron, Hermione, and even the Dursleys underneath a small decorative tree that had appeared the night before. The Dursleys had, of course, sent him only a fifty-cent piece, but Harry was hardly one to complain. Ron liked it, anyway. 

Strangest of all was a package with a short unsigned note pinned to it. 

This was your father’s during his Hogwarts Days. Use it well. 

The script was immaculate and strangely familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. 

The gift itself was strange--an ephemeral substance that shifted and changed with the light--a cloak. When he put it on, though, the results were even stranger. From his neck down, he was invisible. 

There was hardly time to marvel at the discovery, though, because despite Ron’s shock, Harry had to throw the cloak down as a troop of other Weasleys entered the Common Room. 

It was Fred who chucked a crumpled package at Harry’s head. 

“Mum’s made you a Weasley sweater,” moaned Ron, embarrassed. 

Harry, however, was thrilled. “It’s brilliant,” he whispered, almost reverently, as he put it on. And indeed it was--his very own Christmas present, a sweater the shade of emerald that almost matched Harry’s eyes. 

Ron, meanwhile, seemed a little put-out that his was maroon. 

“I hate maroon,” he muttered, “Of course Mum made Harry a nice one.”

They even managed to convince Percy to wear his sweater. He only complained a bit after the twins forcibly maneuvered him into it. 

It was a good day, thought Harry later, as Ron began to snore in the adjacent bed. He had no desire to see it end. Sitting on the end of his own bed and bouncing his legs, Harry eyed the cloak that sagged on a pile of clothes by his trunk. 

With little idea of where he would go, Harry picked up his cloak, unfurled it over himself, and slipped out of the dormitories into the empty hallways. 

The Fat Lady guarding their dorm didn’t even wake up to see him leave. 

He kept walking where intuition told him to and found himself in abandoned hall on the second floor. A door that he had never seen before was slightly ajar, and he was drawn to the moonlight that trickled through the gap. 

The door creaked a bit as he opened it further, and he slipped inside silently. 

“Who’s there?” came a voice from the dark. 

Harry irrationally stepped back into the shadows, and looked towards the voice. Harry saw the figure, sitting there in front of an enormous, ornate mirror, and he recognized it as Draco Malfoy. But the voice had not sounded like Draco Malfoy; it had sounded small and vulnerable, not accusatory, just exceedingly human. Seeing no one, Draco turned back to the mirror, staring at it with glassy eyes. 

As Harry approached the mirror, he let the cloak slowly fall off, transfixed too by something trapped in that dimension. Still, even hearing footsteps, Draco did not turn. Harry’s eyes were no longer fixed on him. 

“What is it,” Harry murmured aloud, no longer caring what Malfoy thought. “How are they--”

Draco turned to him, looking for once tranquil. “What do you see?”

 

“My parents,” Harry replied simply, “How are they here?”

“They’re not,” said Draco, almost bitterly, “I figured it out weeks ago. It’s whatever you want but can’t have.”

Harry sat down next to Draco in front of the mirror, both still staring. “What’s it called?”

“Erised,” replied Draco. 

“It’s beautiful,” he replied. 

Draco shook his head grimly. “It’s not beautiful. It’s terrible to see something you can’t have.”

“But they’re alive, they’re here, they--”

“A figment of your imagination, Potter.” Draco’s voice was almost sympathetic. A tense silence reigned them. 

“You don’t hate me,” said Harry finally. “I thought you did.”

Draco turned towards him, grudgingly breaking eye contact with his smiling father, and replied stubbornly, “I do.”

“You are good at acting like it,” Harry conceded. 

“You’re the one that thinks you're better than everyone else,” said Draco petulantly. “You hated me first, because I’m in Slytherin and you’re in Gryffindor. Slytherin’s just as good, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “for you, but not for me. You wouldn’t want to be Gryffindor, would you?”

“You don’t know what I want.” 

“That’s true,” replied Harry.

“Well,” said Draco, “even if I did--I couldn’t be. Gryffindor, that is.” He looked a little pitiful just then, and Harry was even more certain that Draco didn’t have any hate in him, really. 

“What do you see?” asked Harry. 

“None of your business,” replied Draco, feigning sulleness (which wasn’t difficult, really--sulleness came very naturally to him.) 

“I told you,” said Harry. 

“Yours isn’t a secret,” said Draco. 

“So?” said Harry. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t get it even if I told you; you probably think I’m just lucky to have parents, and anything else is just--I dunno, extra.”

Harry shrugged. “I still want to know.” 

“I see my parents too,” blurted Draco, “except they’re smiling at me, and my dad looks at me like he’s proud.”

“I’m sure--”

“You’re sure of what? That they’d be proud? You can’t know that,” said Draco. 

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Harry replied. (Yes, he was, actually, but that wasn’t the point.) “I was going to say that they should be. You do great in school, you’re respected, Snape loves you--”

“They hate me,” said Draco, “My mother thinks I’m too much like my father and my father thinks I’m not enough.”

Harry shrugged again. “Disappointing people isn’t so bad.” 

“Yeah? Like you’d know that, ‘boy-who-lived,’” griped Draco. 

Harry smiled a little. “I didn’t know about that until--well, pretty much three months ago, so I don’t know how you can think that’s affected my entire life. Besides, my aunt and uncle were utterly disgusted when they found out I could do magic.”

It was Draco’s turn to laugh, albeit a bit sadly. “I can’t imagine not wanting my child to have magic,” he said. 

Harry agreed, “Me neither.” 

They looked at each other for a bit longer, and Harry extended his hand to Draco. “Truce?” he asked. 

“Truce,” agreed Draco.


	15. Teal

At breakfast the next morning, Draco and Harry avoided each other easily. This was more difficult than normal--there were only a few students remaining in the dormitories. 

Draco tried to remain hidden from most people--not just Harry. He was still abjectly aware the irony of his situation: he’d made fun of Weasley and Potter for not being welcomed home, and yet, the fact that he was still here was painfully obvious. 

He was supposed to have gone home a few days before Christmas, and he’d packed for it when his father owled Draco to say that he was coming to meet him. His father had no intentions of taking him home, though, telling Draco he would be staying at school as punishment for failing his mission.. 

Even the day of Christmas, Draco had been given very little comfort. No messages or packages arrived in the mail--not even from his mother. 

He still wasn’t sure if seeing Harry the night before had even been real. It seemed too farfetched, and Harry had come out of nowhere. Still, Harry had extended his hand first. They weren’t friends, but Draco felt a twinge of hope. 

He wasn’t sure quite why it mattered, he thought, as he served himself some toast and eggs, but that interaction had made his solitary Christmas--away from everyone he loved--just a little bit better. 

When the post came in that morning, a large owl dropped a pile of papers and packages in his general direction. He couldn’t help but feel a little relieved--maybe the owls had just been delayed again. 

The first letter he looked at was from Luna. It was a small note, directing him to open the package attached. He hadn’t expected a present from her, and felt a little guilty when he ripped open the paper covering. He found a small opalescent stone within that seemed characteristic of Luna. He smiled involuntarily, and turned it over in his hands, wishing that he’d thought to get her something. 

The second package that he unraveled was much larger--it was from his parents. His mother sent him his favorite kind of tea, with instructions to enjoy the sweets she sent with it. On her short note, she reminded him that she didn’t go an hour without missing him. 

It made him feel grateful and even more homesick. He planned on making himself some tea as soon as he finished breakfast, and maybe he’d spend some time returning their letters. It would be nice, he thought. 

In the same breath, he imagined what it would feel like to be home. He daydreamed that his father would ruffle his hair affectionately, like he had when Draco was younger, and say, “Now, don’t mind it at all, Draco. We don’t have any problems anymore, I fixed it. And I know how this year’s been hard on you. Let me buy you a Nimbus 2000 to make up for it.”

Well, maybe the bit about the broom was a bit unrealistic; he’d be thankful for just a trip home. Still, it irked him that Potter had a broom at school, and he did not. 

He halted his musings and moved on to a letter from Pansy that thanked him excitedly for the vial of nail polish he’d sent her. It was a magical gimmick that turned from green to red whenever someone in hearing distance said “Happy Christmas,” and Pansy was apparently very pleased with it. She admitted, though, that she “mostly just liked the shade of green under a coat of metallic finish” (her words, not his). 

Although normally it was his and Blaise’s job to exaggerate, Pansy still had an understated sort of drama. 

He shuffled through the letters and packages again and realized he had missed a letter from Molly. It was written on thin paper, and he flipped it open quickly. 

“In case you didn’t find it already,” it read, “I left the letter in your trunk. It’s all done!”

He lept up almost comically from the Slytherin table. He shoved the packages and letters into his bag and abandoned his breakfast mostly uneaten. Gone was his demeanor of calm, and his heart raced all the way back to his dormitories, as he awkwardly half-ran, half-walked. 

When he got there, he abandoned his normal neatness and tossed his book-bag on the bed. He knelt immediately in front of his trunk and opened it. There, as promised, lay the note tucked back into its original envelope. A piece of parchment was pinned to it--apparently the translation, penned by an unfamiliar hand--plus a smiley face, presumably from Molly. A small P.S. at the bottom reassured him that she hadn’t read it. 

He tore at it with fumbling fingers, and read it slowly. 

“I was concerned to hear of what happened--” that must be about the Halloween affair and the detention he got to follow-- “Your father is angry, but all is fine. Do not worry, you are not alone. Snape is your ally. You are being tested. You must fail. I am safe. Be brave my darling. Do not reply.”

“You must fail?” he wondered aloud. It said to be brave, too. He wasn’t sure he knew how. Bravery didn’t mean anything anyhow. No one was really brave; they were just scared of different things. Those who people thought were brave just did stupid ‘brave’ things because they were too afraid to be boring.

His mother was a Slytherin, too. How could she tell him to be brave?   
Draco wasn’t like that. He just wanted to survive. And what on earth did his mother mean, that Snape was an ally? An ally for what? And who was testing him? 

The letter confused him more than anything, but he cared only about one thing. She said that she was safe. She wasn’t really in danger after all, and their family would be okay. 

He let the paper slip from his hands, down onto the floor, and sat there, letting out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding. 

Maybe what he saw in the mirror wasn’t so impossible after all. 

He stayed there, slumped on the floor, surrounded by the books and papers that’d flown from his bag when he tossed it. He stayed there until his heartbeat stabilized, and he no longer was afraid. He didn’t feel so alone, anymore. 

When he finally got up, it was to organize a tray of sweets for himself accompanied by his favorite tea. He was always partial to Lady Grey, brewed moderately strong and served with a slice of lemon. He was lucky enough to have all these components somewhere in his dormitory, and he relished its preparation. 

When the tea was finished steeping, he sat down on his bed, put the tea on his nightstand, and began to write back to his friends and family. Outside, the snow blew furiously against his window, and Draco smiled. In this tumultuous year, he’d forgotten to enjoy his favorite season. 

That night at ten o’clock, almost out of habit, he crawled out of bed and tiptoed to the corridor with the Room of Requirement. Used to his nightly ritual, it opened for him, revealing the same immense room he’d gotten used to over the weeks. 

Somehow, he assumed Harry would be there, but the room was empty save for the mirror. He wandered over to it, expecting to feel the same thrill as always when he saw his family with him, sitting contentedly. The same image was there, but somehow it did not call to him. Instead, he broke his gaze away from the mirror and wandered to the window. 

He almost didn’t hear the door creak open again--someone really needed to oil the hinges--but he swiveled around anyway. 

Of course it was Harry. He hadn’t expected anyone else, but he was relieved it wasn’t Filch, or Mrs. Norris, or someone else cruel. 

It’s funny, he thought, a week ago I would have placed Harry Potter among the cruel ones. 

Harry stood there, looking a bit out of place but still comfortable. “Hello, Malfoy,” he said, relatively pleasantly. 

“Hello,” Draco replied back. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

“Me neither,” said Harry, “but I couldn’t sleep.” 

Draco tried to smile, but he was sure it came out as a bit of a grimace. It felt awkward to him, to smile in front of someone he had been exclusively smirking or frowning at. 

“You’re not looking at the mirror,” Harry added. 

“It didn’t seem right,” said Draco, not really explaining what he meant. 

They stood there for a moment, before Harry said, “Do you want to go for a walk.” 

“Now?” asked Draco, thinking of at least four reasons why that would be a terrible idea. 

“Yeah,” replied Harry. 

“Outside?” specified Draco. 

“Yeah, well, we could get a coat. Each,” Harry suggested. “It’s not as cold as it was, even if it’s snowing. It’ll be nice. Plus, I haven’t been outside in the snow very often.”

“There’s probably a reason for that,” muttered Draco. “How will we get past Filch?” Draco did not mean that as a question; he meant it as an unavoidable barrier to their outdoor walk. 

“Oh, that,” said Harry. “Easy, I have this cloak.” Only then did Draco see the shimmery fabric that Harry trailed behind him. 

“Great,” said Draco, “you have a cloak. Congratulations. Everyone has a cloak.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Look,” he said, and threw it around himself. 

It wouldn’t be quite accurate to say that Draco’s jaw dropped (he was much too put together for that), but a look of shock did overcome him. “Those are rare,” he said, “those aren’t made anymore; they’re near impossible to find and only Aurors are allowed to use them!”

Harry shrugged. “Are you coming?” he asked, and held up the cloak so that Draco could duck under it, too. 

“Of course I’m coming, Potter,” he said, “I’m not scared.”

 

“Didn’t say you were,” said Harry, grinning at Draco’s defensiveness. “Let’s get our coats first.”

It was a whimsical suggestion that made Draco feel reckless. It was exciting to have a secret friend and to break rules that had nothing to do with his father’s task. Going to play in the snow was by no means an intelligent idea, or one they were doing for a particular reason. 

Here they were, rushing to the Slytherin common room--it was closer, and besides, Harry admitted his coat had holes--to go grab two spare winter coats. Draco left Harry outside the door and borrowed Pansy’s. To his chagrin, they were actually the same size. Draco decided to give Harry his coat, though, mostly because he didn’t want Harry to suspect that he was borrowing a coat from a girl because his two male best friends had much larger sizes. 

He regretted his choice immediately. 

“Your coat’s cooler,” frowned Harry as soon as Draco handed him one. “This one has too many buttons, who did you even borrow it from?”

Draco rolled his eyes and did his best not to look hurt. 

“What?” said Harry. 

“Quiet, or Filch will hear us,” Draco deflected. He was rather good at deflection, even for a Slytherin. The only person it didn’t work on was Pansy. 

“Come on then,” urged Harry. “Get under here.” 

They tiptoed down the hallway to a side door--one that would lead outside. They looked at each other with excitement, and pulled the door open. 

Draco stepped outside first, into a little area that was covered by an overhang. Harry followed and let the Invisibility cloak slip off them. Harry promptly looked down at their feet, noticing their slippers and thin pajama pants. 

“We should’ve changed our shoes,” said Draco, but his excited face shone slightly in the dark. 

“Know any warming spells then?” asked Harry.

“One,” replied Draco, “but we can use it after.” He hesitated, before adding, “My slippers will be ruined.” Harry bit his tongue to keep from ridiculing said expensive slippers. 

“Come on, you git,” he said instead. He forged into the knee-deep snow. Draco figured it was supposed to be at a run, but it ended up just being an awkward, bow legged gait on account of the snow. 

He followed. It wasn’t long until they were both red-faced and tired. 

“We didn’t get very far,” said Harry, but he didn’t seem to be complaining. 

“This what you had in mind when you said ‘outdoor walk?’” asked Draco sarcastically. He was grinning. 

“It’s exactly what I meant,” said Harry. 

Draco looked past him suddenly, his expression turning serious. Harry looked at his face and could tell something was wrong--he looked worried--and was it just Harry, or had the wind actually picked up? 

“Potter,” said Draco hoarsely-- “is that--” Harry whirled around, looking into the distance through the flurry of snow. 

“I don’t see anything,” he said, eyes still fixed on the horizon. 

Draco tiptoed closer being him and promptly shoved snow down his back. 

“You--you!” 

Draco turned around and raised his eyebrows, “What? What am I?”

Harry just took an armful of snow and dumped it on Draco’s head. 

“Wait!” said Draco, “I wanna try something.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Harry suspiciously. Draco shrugged. 

“Watch,” he said. He took out his wand, and said clearly--with the ideal arm motion-- “Wingardium Leviosa!” A considerable pile of snow was directed into the air a few feet, and both boys watched it carefully. 

Draco shoved it suddenly to the side, and it landed on Harry’s head. Again. 

“Seriously!” cried Harry. “You owe me a warming charm. And I hope you’re not this much of a git to your friends.” 

“Only when I’m happy,” said Draco offhand. “Truce?” he said, and extended his hand to help Harry up. It reminded them both very much of their first formal introduction, back on the first day of school. How different things were then, thought Draco. 

Harry grasped his hand tightly and instead of pulling himself up, yanked Draco down. They sat in the snow together, giggling slightly. Draco couldn’t really be mad; he had definitely started it. 

“It’s nice when you look at the snow from this angle,” said Harry, staring straight up. “It looks like magic.”

“We’re surrounded by magic,” retorted Draco. 

“I never was,” said Harry. “Sometimes I still think I’ll wake up and find out it wasn’t real.” 

“So it’s true?”

“What?” asked Harry. 

“That your family never told you you have magic.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, a little sullenly. “Seems like an awful lot to keep from a person.”

Draco didn’t reply, they just stared up at the sky for a while before Draco realized suddenly he was quite cold. 

“I think my toes are freezing,” he said. “Let’s go back in.” 

They trudged back into the castle together. “Our friends would never believe us if we told them we don’t hate each other,” said Draco. “At least mine wouldn’t.”

“True,” said Harry. A mischievous look was in his eyes. “What if--”

“What if we acted like rivals?” he continued. “They’d never know any better, it would be funny and a harmless joke.”

“And if Gryffindor and Slytherin are ever paired together, they’d expect us to go mad--and we can just be strangely polite. Or we can play into it. And they’d never be the wiser,” said Draco. 

“Not a bad idea for a goody-two shoes, Malfoy,” said Harry. 

“You can call me Draco, you know. It is my name.” 

“Unless we’re around our friends,” said Harry. “In which case we are back to last-names only.” 

“Of course,” said Draco. “Harry?” he said, trying out the new name. “I never said this yesterday, but Happy Christmas.” 

“Happy Christmas, Draco,” said Harry. `


	16. Marigold

Once Harry was gone, all Draco felt was tired. It had been nice for a while to have a friend that let him forget everything; it made him think that maybe, just maybe, his father was wrong about him. It was a nice thought to fall asleep to. 

The next morning, however, found him in a foul mood. He’d managed to sleep at a poor angle leaving his muscles stiff and painful, and that was only the start of his problems. 

He hoped Pansy would get back soon enough to dissuade him from this truce he’d agreed to; how else would he keep himself entertained, if he couldn’t antagonize the Gryffindors? But alas, she was not due to return until the fourth of January. 

Rather than wallowing too extensively, Draco showered and dressed. Once he ate,perhaps he could go find a hapless Hufflepuff to hex--getting a laugh might lift him from this terrible mood. 

He felt guilty for thinking it, but that didn’t change how he felt--and how he felt was really quite rotten. It was probably Potter’s fault, he thought aggressively. He shouldn’t have agreed to go on that ruddy walk. 

“You look to be in a foul mood,” commented an older Slytherin as Draco slammed the door to the first year dormitories. “Well, fouler than usual,” quipped his friend Marcus Flint, the captain of the Slytherin quidditch team. 

Draco summoned every ounce of his fury and sent the pair a withering look. It must not have worked exceedingly well, though, because the pair chuckled instead. He hated that no one took eleven year olds seriously. 

Draco sighed to himself and could even bring himself to admit that there was no real reason for his mood. It wouldn’t go away, though, either. 

He stomped his way to breakfast and attempted to eat with minimal violence towards his utensils. 

He didn’t get any mail at breakfast, and so left early. There were not many people there, anyway. Not even Potter, and he’d feel silly just sitting there waiting for  someone to talk to. 

On the way out of the Great Hall, he almost walked into Ron Weasley. 

Automatically, Draco spat, “Watch where you’re going.”

True to form, Ron replied, “Piss off.” No love was lost between the two, rather there was raw, unadulterated dislike. Ron thought Draco was a snob and a bully. While Draco could admit that there was a sliver of truth to that, Draco thought Ron dense and slobbish--in his mind far worse. Draco wondered if it actually took talent to be that thick. 

A wave of dislike swept through him and finally he had an outlet for his frustration. On a whim, he called out, “Weasley! Catch!”

Draco tossed whatever was at the top of his book bag--in this case a partially melted chocolate frog from Christmas, still in its packaging. This was no act of charity, though, because while Ron was distracted catching the projectile, Draco hexed him. 

Nothing serious. Draco wouldn’t want to get detention. It was just enough that a terrible cold would drive the other boy to the hospital wing within the hour. And with all luck, Draco would never be linked to the incident. 

Ron looked at the frog in confusion, and Draco realized he had better throw in a jab just to allay suspicion. 

“Just in case your parents couldn’t afford a present,” he sneered. 

“Thanks Malfoy,” replied Ron scathingly. “I thought you were wanted at home, though?” He pocketed the chocolate and continued to the dining hall, the look of disgust on his face never waning. 

Draco felt a twinge of regret. Weasley hadn’t done anything to provoke it, but--since when did Draco need a reason, anyway? 

Unsure of what else he could do with himself, he stopped by the Slytherin common room to pick up his Potions textbooks. Maybe he’d go to the library. 

If he could just distract himself--

He may as well try to understand potions a little bit better in the process. That’s what he liked about Potions, he thought. It was never quite perfect; it could always be improved and somehow that was extraordinarily comforting. 

He sat down in one of the first seats available in the library. It wasn't his usual spot--normally, he looked for a back corner to avoid the throngs of Ravenclaws. But today, he was looking for some distraction. He imagined that someone--Harry, or Pansy, or Luna, or perhaps someone new and interesting--would come rescue him from his restless boredom. 

He read the Potions book, at first. It was hard to keep his eyes on the page, but he did it, and he relished that he could make himself do it; he had control of himself at the very least. 

Eventually, as the minutes passed, so did his foul mood. In its place was anxiety and the sensation that he was waiting for something that would never happen. He barely noticed the discomfort rise in him, because it built up so slowly. He didn’t eat lunch; he wasn’t hungry. He barely drank the water he brought with him. He barely moved. 

He wished he had a broom, because that would give him a chance to let off some steam in a way that felt productive--he could practice for the quidditch team. 

After a good, long while, he shifted one seat down, so he could face the door to the library rather than the window. He did his best to glue his eyes to the words on the page in front of him, but every time the heavy door swung open, his head swiveled, scanning the doorway looking for something. 

Everytime he looked, he was disappointed, which was funny--he wasn’t waiting for anyone in particular. For a long time, no one he recognized came around the corner. Draco gave up on focusing. His eyes gazed listlessly at the pages--he’d already read quite a few, anyway, and “Techniques for the Intermediate Potions Apprentice,” would be there later. He was tired, anyway--tired in a pervasive way--physically and mentally--that could not be alleviated by sleep. 

Instead, he moved to daydreams. 

They were nice at first, they really were. He dreamt of sitting on the grass in a field, surrounded by friends both familiar and not. Pansy and Astoria--the girl who lived down the street from him, whose older sister was in Draco’s year--sat in his daydream, laughing and smiling at him as they passed around food and liberal gossip. 

But somehow the beautiful thought was not satisfying to him. He imagined that some dark figure emerged from the woods, and the sky turned brooding. “Give him up or I’ll kill the girl,” the figure spoke. And the figure was everywhere and his voice came from the sky, not just the mouth beneath the hood. The voice meant Pansy, Draco knew, because the figure was of course his own imagination. 

In the dream, Draco stepped out from behind her; he put a sturdy arm on her shoulder to reassure her that really, he’d be fine, and went to face the figure. Draco was stately; he was graceful. And in his dream, of course, Draco was brave. 

He closed his eyes and sighed and banished the image from his head. 

“Hello?” came a small voice in front of him. It was not from his daydreams, he decided belatedly, and he snapped his eyes open to focus on the person in front of him. 

“Potter,” he replied. Harry looked a bit uncomfortable before sitting down, uninvited, at the chair across from Draco. 

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” said Harry. 

“It’s the library,” said Draco. 

“And I’ve never seen you here before,” Harry retorted. 

“Yeah, because you’re here all the time,” said Draco. 

“Why are you in a foul mood?”

“It’s who I am,” replied Draco. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” said Harry. 

“If you’d met my family, you’d think I was positively optimistic,” said Draco. 

“Well, you should meet mine,” said Harry, not to be deterred. 

“I’d rather not,” Draco smirked. Nothing fixed his mood like verbal sparring. (Or sparring with hexes, come to think of it.)

But Harry just sighed slightly. 

Draco switched topics. “You know that girl, Luna?” 

“Lovegood?” asked Harry. “She went home a couple months ago, her father was sick.”

“Were you friends?” Draco asked. 

“Sort of,” said Harry. 

Draco nodded. “Sort of for me too.”

Harry looked a little shocked. “She never said,” he replied. 

  
  



	17. Byzantine

Harry woke up, still drowsy as if he hadn’t slept very much. He rolled over and slipped his glasses over his nose, but the features of the room were still unclear in the dark. Ron, however, was snoring the early morning hours away. The rest of the room was quiet, and the window was frosted over. 

It was rather peaceful, he thought. Looking around, he wondered how it was that a few months ago, he never knew that any of this existed. Of course, he’d always felt he didn’t belong; he always felt that there was something else waiting for him. But didn’t everyone feel that way? Didn’t he still, just a little bit, wonder if he was meant to be  _ here _ , even though he was happy? 

He sat up, and slipped from out of the covers. It was less cold than before, and Harry felt well rested despite his nighttime antics. 

He felt overwhelmingly peaceful as he stared through the window. His breath was a fog from the cold, and he decided he rather liked winter. Here he was, at Hogwarts: no Dursleys, no bullying, and no homework. (No quidditch, too, since it was over Christmas, but one couldn’t have everything.)

Hermione was due to come back the day after New Years, he remembered suddenly, and he felt a twinge of guilt for not researching Nicholas Flamel. He couldn’t help thinking that whatever they were looking for, they wouldn’t find in  _ Hogwarts _ ,  _ a History,  _ or even some strange book in the restricted section. 

But--he had four days until Hermione was back, and he should at least try. Tonight would have to do. 

He set out into the night, clutching a lantern out from under his invisibility cloak, shivering slightly in the halls of the castle. Normally, the library was a separate building on the grounds, but in winter a passageway underground opened up. This, Harry was thankful for--as cold as the hallways were, he could hear the cold wind outside blowing even from inside. 

“Alohomora,” he murmured at the library door. It swung open with an ominous creak. Everything in the castle that looked full of life and wonderful by day took on an eerie feel at night. The library was no exception; it’s high arches and stone walls seemed ominous. 

He scanned the rows upon rows of dusty books. The textbook section near the front was well used, but as he snuck towards the back of the library, towards the restricted section, the books grew more and more unused and the room seemed to close upon itself, and grew darker. 

Harry had to admit it was a little creepy. He kept the invisibility cloak on for this very reason, even though it made his progress slower. Finally, though, he reached the Restricted section and ducked underneath the ropes that separated it from the other books. Only 5th years and older were allowed in the Restricted section, and even then some books were warded so they had to stay in the library. But no one was here to stop him, and it was his chance to look up Nicolas Flamel and finally solve the puzzle of what was hidden in the third floor corridor. Since September 12th, the day that Draco (Harry still felt a flush of annoyance over this, even though they were friends now) had challenged them to a duel, and they’d been forced to run from Filch, and, well, suffice it to say that whatever was being hidden was apparently important enough to be guarded by a three-headed dog. 

Harry knew someone was up to something. And putting the pieces together, it sure seems like it has something to do with Snape. He thought about the letter, too, and while normally his first instinct would be to implicate Malfoy, Harry wasn’t so sure anymore. Besides, Malfoy wouldn’t have let anyone else read it unless he was truly desperate and unable to read it--

It was possible. But Harry believed in the tentative friendship he’d struck with Malfoy, and he liked it. He could be wary, but he didn’t want suspicion to ruin this. It was strange, though, he thought, as he tiptoed through the tall bookcases and squinted his eyes at the spines of the book to see their titles--Malfoy was cruel and a right prick, but there was something else, there, too. He wanted to know more at the very least. 

_ History of Infamous Wizards and Witches, 1100 A.D. to present.  _

That sounded promising. He grabbed the spine of the book and cracked it open, somewhere in the middle--but any of his inclination to read it was shattered when the book started screaming at him, a face growing out of the pages and yelling. 

Nope. He had to go, right now. His heart in his throat, he slammed the book shut, and in his haste kicked over the lantern that he’d left on the floor. 

He threw the invisibility cloak over his head and ran; he hurt the shuffling of a gait towards him and he forced himself not to run around the corner. Instead he stayed perfectly still, breathing as quietly as he could given his terrified state. 

It was a good thing he’d stopped himself short, because it was just seconds later that Filch stumbled around the corner, pulling his bad leg behind him, his greasy hair stuck to his forehead, dressed in a bathrobe, but with a gleam in his eyes. 

“Students out of bed,” he cried. 

Harry closed his eyes briefly, overcome with fear that he really could be seen. But instead, Filch walked past him, towards the Restricted Section of the library. Harry gathered his courage to continue, but it was a good thing he didn’t--none other than Professor Snape swept around the corner, still fully dressed in robes from the day despite the late hour. 

“Mr. Filch,” said Snape, “I believe our culprit has already left the library. He can’t have gone far.” 

Filch must have agreed, because he shuffled out, his cat leading the way. Professor Snape whirled around as soon as he left, his dark eyes sizing up the room. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, looking less certain than usual, “Come to my office tomorrow at 1.” 

With that, he swept out of the room. 

The next morning, Harry relayed the strange occurrence to Ron. 

“Why didn’t you ask me to come with you, mate?” was his first reply, and Harry just shrugged. 

“You were sick last night, it was just to check out if the Restricted section had anything on Nicolas Flamel. It wasn’t like it was for fun.”

“Madame Pomfrey fixed me up. Besides, I could have helped!” said Ron, and Harry couldn’t help but smile. “But really, Harry, this is pretty strange. First Snape’s limp, the letter, now this--I really think Malfoy’s up to something.”

Harry wanted to disagree, but found that he couldn’t. Either way, he wanted to find out what was going on so he could put this doubt to rest. 

“You’re right,” he said, “We’ve just gotta find out what.” 

Ron looked a little glum when the went down to breakfast, but brushed it off when Harry asked him about it. 

However, after they’d both managed to stuff their faces, Ron seemed a little more likely to share. “I just don’t want classes to start so soon,” he said, “plus, when Hermione gets back she’s gonna bother us about the Nicolas Flamel thing, and…”

He looked mournfully at his piece of breakfast sausage. 

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, but he gave him a smile anyway. “I have an idea,” he said, after a time. “Why don’t we ask Fred and George if they want to throw around a quaffle later? You could borrow Lee’s broom, he barely uses it now that he’s commentator.” 

“Did he used to play?” asked Ron. 

“I think he was reserve keeper for a while. But with Wood, he never really played much”

“Yeah,” agreed Ron. “Oliver’s great. I bet he could play on Pud if he wanted.” 

Harry was proud of himself for knowing the team Ron was referring to. Hermione’s Christmas gift of  _ Quidditch Through the Ages  _ really did come in handy. 

Harry’s suggestion worked as the diversion he hoped for, and Ron’s mood seemed to pick up considerably, despite the fact that playing Quidditch with Fred and George usually resulted in incessant teasing. 

“I reckon I’ll try out for the team, sometime,” said Ron. 

“What position?” Harry was not-so-secretly pleased; it would be even more fun to have a close friend on the pitch. 

“Not beater,” said Ron. “Normally when I play at home, they make me play keeper. Charlie’s seeker, obviously.” 

“Obviously?” Harry asked. 

“Well, yeah,” said Ron, squinting his eyes as if he couldn’t believe Harry’s ignorance. “Charlie was the best seeker Gryffindor’s seen since… well, since ever, really.” 

“Oh,” replied Harry, because there isn’t much else you can say to that. 

“When we can get our cousins over, our whole family almost makes a team,” Ron continued. “Fred and George play beater, Bill plays a decent chaser, and even though Percy’s rotten, he’ll play chaser too.”

“Don’t you have a sister, too?” asked Harry, remembering the shy, bright-haired girl that he’d seen briefly on the platform.

“Yeah, but she’s a girl. She doesn’t play quidditch,” Ron said as if it was obvious.

“But Katie Bell, Angelina, even the Ravenclaw seeker’s a girl,” said Harry, not quite sure what Ron was trying to get at. 

“She’d get hurt,” said Ron, stubbornly. 

“Does she want to play?” said Harry. 

“Why do you care all the sudden?” said Ron, clearly getting tired of the conversation. 

“I don’t,” said Harry. 

They played quidditch that afternoon, and Harry couldn’t help but think that it would be nice if Draco could play, although he was sure he’d never get on with the Weasleys. But that impulse still had a shadow over it. He wished he knew what was going on. 


	18. Periwinkle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be trying to update every Thursday; we'll see if it happens but feel free to harangue me if I fail. Thanks for everyone's comments & kudos!

“Foolish, foolish, foolish,” Narcissa thought, taking careful steps in an oval around the spacious master bedroom. Narcissa considered herself a shrewd woman; she was the controller, not the controlled. But, she admitted to herself with more than a little chagrin, she had made a series of grave errors that began with the gravest error she had ever made: she had underestimated her husband.

Another mistake: she had misconstrued love for the son as admiration of the father. 

Narcissa cared for Lucius (possibly another mistake, she thought, now). The two of them had been convenient, anyway: complimentary in every way that counted to families such as theirs. He was an attractive man, and she was a beautiful woman. Both were rich, and refined, and from the old families that still valued the old ways. Narcissa had not needed love from him--she had her mother, her sister Bellatrix, and more important than anything else in the world--she had her son. 

Narcissa had thought she’d known love before he was born, but there was no doubt she had been wrong. What was ‘love’ before was weak and mild and nice but not especially necessary. What she felt for Draco was fierce, protective, expansive, terrifying and all-consuming. 

When she saw something like that love in Draco’s eyes towards his father, Narcissa couldn’t help it. Draco worshipped Lucius, and so Narcissa loved Lucius, too. 

That love was nothing like her exclusive love for Draco. But it was love still--in a pitying sort of way, because she’d always thought he was a weak man with the potential to be strong; a man with big dreams and mediocre ability. 

Lucius had been beside himself when the Dark Lord had fallen; he walked for hours on the grounds, his face crumpled and his back straight. Sometimes, at dinner, she thought she caught him sobbing. 

Narcissa thought it was strange. He had never been particularly devoted; he had feared the Dark Lord but appreciated the purpose he brought to the pure blood movement. 

But three weeks after the death of the Potters and the fall of the Dark Lord, Lucius had woken her in the early morning with his eyes shining. 

“Look,” he said, and he pointed the golden tip of his otherwise austere wand towards his left arm. “He’s alive,” said Lucius, watching the snake twist in and out of the skull of the Dark Mark. “We just have to find him.”

It had perplexed her, but she had welcomed it. The Dark Lord’s survival meant that they were on the winning side with minimal effort. Lucius’s strange reapplication of himself to his Death Eater duties after the revival of the Dark Mark did him good. 

Lucius disappeared for a week the next morning. He commandeered a section of the basement and ordered Narcissa, Bellatrix, and even an infant Draco to stay clear of it. You see, he had explained to Narcissa, it was he, Lucius Malfoy, who had found him. And in the Dark Lord’s weakened state, he required just a few things: Lucius’s help, of course, 3 pints of unicorn blood a week, and to never be disturbed. He sent his most loyal followers small tasks, and these Death Eaters served him loyally--eagerly. 

When Narcissa chose to forget the fact that the half-alive body of the greatest and most volatile wizard of the 20th century resided in her basement, she was happier than ever. 

And Lucius was, too. He was strong, but not cruel; he had power over the death eaters because he was the mouthpiece of the Dark Lord. He had a loving wife and a beautiful, albeit colicky, one-year-year old. He doted over Draco, and it was perhaps Lucius’s fondness for her son that softened her heart to him. 

They were happy, until the doubt came. The Death Eaters were restless; they wanted a plan for the Dark Lord’s return to power other than Lucius’s vague promises. There were murmurs of his survival everywhere, from Hogwarts to Bulgaria; false sightings and occasional crimes were attributed to him. Most were too obviously fake to be reassuring, and the death eaters wanted their leader back. 

They wanted some proof. 

Lucius did his best, but his eyes no longer shone. It was too late, of course, he told Narcissa, to turn back. It was a duty now and the Dark Lord would not be pleased to hear her, Narcissa, the wife of his second-in-command, speak in such a way. 

And the Dark Lord was a Legilimens, so she held her tongue and even stifled her thoughts. She told Draco as little as they could afford. 

The last time she’d seen him laugh was at his ninth birthday. It was one of the last of Lucius’s good days, when he still gave his praise and approval of his son freely. 

As she put together these pieces of memories and thoughts and only half expressed instincts, Narcissa paced in the master bedroom of Malfoy Manor. 

The cipher had been another of her mistakes, she reflected. It was complex enough to evade her husband and the other Death Eaters, but it would equally befuddle her son, no matter how smart she knew he was. Furthermore, the note told him nothing of use; it was all too vague. 

And yet, as a mother knowing what she knew, she had no choice. Lucius was becoming dangerous. He was threatening Draco with something, although she couldn’t be sure with what. And he was a sensitive boy, Draco, strong but sensitive and deserved to have a good year at Hogwarts instead of whatever his father wanted to drag him into. 

She’d made sure he’d stay at Hogwarts for Christmas. She hoped he wasn’t too lonely, but her boy was kind--he’d have made friends and he would be fine. 

 

She kept pacing. Lucius was in another of his rages, so she’d come up here and locked and warded the door before he could lose his mind and hex her. He always regretted it after, of course, but one of these days…

The first stars rose on the horizon, barely visible through a thin mist of fog. Despite the cold air of January, she opened the window. She popped the cork of an old port bottle, poured herself a small glass, and sipped it as she looked out over the grounds. 

She stayed like that for a few minutes, thinking of Draco (it seemed she always did whenever she had a moment to spare) before delicately closing the window once more.  She finished her port, and the glass vanished as soon as it touched the tray on her mahogany dresser. 

She sighed, unwrapped her hair, and climbed into bed. Lucius would sleep in the guest bedroom, tonight.

It was early in the morning when she woke--not quite dawn--to a sound that broke through the thickness of her sleep. An owl hooted from outside the window, and Narcissa became instantly alert. 

She swung out of bed, feet touching the cold ground, not bothering with slippers. It was eight steps to the window, but always felt like more--it was a large room. 

For a second time that night, she pushed the window open, and she barely waited for the owl to flutter inside before plucking; the letter from the owl’s talons. 

Draco. 

There was her name, written just as she expected in his neat and slanted scrawl. Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black. Normally he did not include her maiden name. She thought it curious. 

Thank you, Mother, the note said. I hope your Christmas was a happy one. I am happy at Hogwarts but I am impatient to see you again.  **Your** son, Draco. 

P.S. The sweets and the note before it were unexpected but lovely. 

She breathed again. He’d read her note. Narcissa burned the letter and watched the print fade from view. 

As the light from her small fire faded, she felt more alone. It had not been a happy Christmas, and Draco knew that. She very much doubted he had been pleased, either, even if he’d enjoyed the time with friends. 

She went to close the window, but remembered the owl. A knut sent him on his way.

She got back into bed and thought about how, if it wasn’t for Draco, she’d be long gone. She sighed. The south of France, perhaps. It would be a relief to leave the London fog. 


	19. Mulberry

When Pansy got back from her winter break, she was in a dour mood. Draco, on the other hand, was secretly very pleased. It was the best he’d felt in weeks, at some part due to her return, as well as the fact that school recommenced the Monday following. 

Pansy was mostly silent as she unpacked her luggage. Draco kept her company, not saying much either. He figured she’d start ranting at some point, and he just needed to be a little patient. 

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked, after a good half hour had passed and she had mostly finished. 

“Let’s go to the owlery,” she replied. “It’s a good place to vent.” 

This was going to be good, Draco thought. 

“Sure,” he agreed, and pushed himself up off of Pansy’s bed. Pansy had already turned around sharply and was marching down the girl’s dormitory to the door of the common room. 

“Wait,” said Pansy, turning around again. “How did you get up here?” 

“I walked, same as you.” Draco rolled his eyes and kept walking, but Pansy remained still. 

“No, I’m serious,” said Pansy. “Blaise was talking about how boys can’t get up here because the castle’s warded against it. It’s old magic, from the Founder’s days. Of course, girls can go in the boys’ dormitory, which is both stupid and sexist yet also extremely satisfying.”

Draco stopped cold. “Really? Who else has tried, other than Blaise?” Maybe it was a one-time thing, after all. “Maybe it’s because it’s over holidays,” Draco added, “or because I’m helping you unpack or something.” 

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You’re hardly helping me.”

“I’m practically helping you,” muttered Draco. He realized he sounded defensive but he couldn’t help it--or the fact that he felt threatened by this realization. It was supposed to be cool, right? How would other boys feel about it? He didn’t know. It was just nice to be able to talk to his best friend (for he realized that Pansy and he definitely were best friends) without having to meet in the common room every time. But that was all. 

Pansy, to her credit, didn’t seem perturbed. “I guess it’s a mystery to be solved,” she said. “I bet we could do tests to figure it out and see if other boys can to, or if your special.”

There was something weird in the tone of her voice, but Draco couldn’t identify what. 

“Maybe,” he said softly. He wasn’t sure how enthusiastic he felt about that prospect. 

They reached the owlery after only a few moments. They ran into almost no one--just a couple of third year Slytherins dragging their trunks to the dungeons. When they got to the owlery, Pansy checked the room for people, found none, and then slammed the door shut and locked it with her wand. 

“Honestly, Draco that was the worst Christmas of my life--and I so do like Christmas.” She faced the open window of the owelry, facing out, stubbornly refusing to look at him. If she met his eyes, he knew he would see tears He took a few steps forward and stared out the window with her, not looking at her face. 

“I thought I could go home and everything would be nice and comfortable and like normal. I love Hogwarts but I really missed being home, and I miss my dad even though he’s distant sometimes. I don’t miss my mom because she’s a terrible nag, but I missed being home, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Draco softly, “I know.” 

“It was awful,” Pansy continued, but she paused as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to explain. 

“Tell me,” said Draco--it wasn’t a command; it was an invitation. 

“I have an older sister, Genevieve, who doesn’t visit much. Mum doesn’t approve of her training to be an Auror, and they fought about it a lot when she graduated from Hogwarts. But this Christmas, Viv said she’d come home, partly because she’d met someone she wanted us to meet. She said she’d bring them over for Boxing day, because Viv was going over to theirs for Christmas dinner. So Mum was all excited because Viv said they were a pureblood, from old money, the same age as her--a perfect match. Viv met them in auror training, and Mum was willing to overlook that because she really wants an heir and had sort of assumed that Genevieve would never marry. She’s nineteen and she’d never had a boyfriend or mentioned anyone.” 

“And?” asked Draco, with a sinking feeling. 

“She brought home a girl. Your cousin Nymphadora, to be exact.” 

“What?” said Draco. “Dora?”

“I’m surprised you’ve met her,” said Pansy. 

“Only a few times,” Draco admitted. “Aunt Andromeda’s been disowned, so they’re not around much. But she’s a lesbian?”

“Dora’s apparently bisexual. Viv says she’s a lesbian, though, and I don’t mind but she really did it in the worst way possible, building up their hopes and then dashing them. Mind you, my parents would have been terrible about it anyway. And it puts so much pressure on me, now, and Mum’s ben babbling about arranged marriage again--if not for Viv, then for me, because she’s afraid she won’t get an heir--but no one does arranged marriages anymore!”

“Damn,” said Draco quietly, because there wasn’t much more to be said when your parent was signing away your future. “She won’t go through with it, will she?”

“She might,” said Pansy, bitterly.

Draco stiffened. “We won’t let that happen,” he said, as firmly as he could muster. “I promise.” 

She looked at him, no longer attempting to hide her tears. Before he realized what happened, her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, and she was sobbing quietly. Pansy usually wasn’t particularly touchy or emotional, so it caught him off guard. 

He supposed she had the right to panic, grieve, cry, or whatever. Being a traditional family came with its privileges he supposed, but this--this emotional baggage--was not one of them. 

“You won’t have to marry someone terrible,” he said, even though he wasn’t really sure. 

“How can you promise that?” she asked. 

“We’ll find you a nice pureblood boy that your parents can’t say no to,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer a girl.” 

She shook her head and laughed a little through her tears. “I’ve never had a friend like you before,” she said, pulling away from the hug. “Thanks.”

“I’ve never had a friend before, really,” he said. “Not one to talk to. So, anytime, Pans.” 

They walked back to the common room in their regular companionable silence. 

“I hope Snape gives us another project,” said Pansy. “It feels like procrastinating school work except it’s actually productive.”

“Careful, Parkinson, you’ll sound like a nerd,” said Draco. “Although just this once I happen to agree. I want to beat Granger in Potions, at least.”

“You mean, if I don’t leave you both behind in the dust?” asked Pansy teasingly. 

“In your dreams, Parkinson,” Draco replied. 

“Meet me here and we’ll walk to dinner together,” said Pansy. “I’m going to write my sister a letter.”

“What will you say?” asked Draco. 

“That I’m sorry my family isn’t supportive but she’s a turd for burning bridges that I have to fix.”

Draco nodded. “See you at dinner.” It seemed like a good time to reorganize his notes for the third time this winter break. 

He looked at the Quidditch position chart’s he’d carefully detailed--notes he already knew by heart because flying and potions were his comfort. 

He thought about what he’d managed to accomplish in the past three months and despite his father’s disappointment in him, he found that he felt a twinge of pride. That was new--but why shouldn’t he be proud? He’d befriended a rival, learned an immense amount both inside and outside class; he’d made a best friend. He’d never had one of those before: and with that best friend, he’d brewed Wolfsbane correctly on his first try. 

But he couldn’t do the one thing his father asked of him. He wondered why that was. Did Lucius ask too much? Was Draco simply incapable? Or was he really just not trying hard enough? 

By the time he met Pansy for dinner, he had brooded his way out of his good mood. Instead, he felt cooped up and restless and began to doubt even the sense of accomplishment he’d felt while going through his notes. 

Pansy, on the other hand, looked much less aggrieved than she had previously. 

“When will everyone be back?” she asked brightly, although she couldn’t have expected Draco to know any better than she did. 

“Vince is in tonight, Greg tomorrow morning,” Draco said, surprising the both of them. The two boys had adopted Draco as their ringleader after Draco had helped them get “Acceptables” on their last potions exam, and had been following him around ever since

“Molly was back this morning, I think,” said Pansy, “And she said she had something to show me tonight. You should come!”

“I will,” said Draco. He wasn’t sure what else to do at this point. “Pans,” he continued, after a brief pause, “Do you have any friends in other houses?”

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “A couple Ravenclaws maybe. The Hufflepuffs are boring, and the Gryffindors want nothing to do with us; you know how they are.”

“Molly’s friends with Gryffindors,” said Draco. 

“Molly’s friends with everyone,” responded Pansy. 

“Yeah, but that means it’s possible,” said Draco. 

“Not for us,” said Pansy. “Molly’s different. She’s a Muggleborn in Slytherin, and she’s likeable. Say, is this about Potter again?” 

“What? No,” said Draco. “What do you mean, I rarely talk about him?” What did she mean by again?

“Right,” said Pansy. 

“Seriously,” said Draco. “I was just wondering because there was this Ravenclaw girl--but she went home.” 

On a different day, Pansy would’ve teased him, but not today. “Almost no one ever goes home,” she said instead. “Whatever it was must have been serious.” Draco nodded but didn’t provide more detail. His question hadn’t really been about Luna, but it hadn’t exactly been about Harry, either. It was just--

This all seemed so limiting. Home was a cage; Hogwarts was supposed to be different. But even he couldn’t explain why he felt that way. 

They enjoyed dinner together, and Molly came in fifteen minutes after them. She was gushing about her new ‘television’ set (a Muggle invention); Pansy, of course, had to brag about how Draco could get into the girl’s dormitory.. At first, Draco was annoyed with Pansy--but Molly’s definite approval made him feel less insecure about the situation. 

After dinner, they crept up to the girls’ dormitory (Molly had demanded proof anyway) so Molly could show them her television. Her muggle cousins had gifted it to her, apparently, and Molly’s father had helped her rig it to work on a battery--with the help of an advanced energy magic textbook that she’d obtained from a used bookstore on Diagon Alley. Or, so she had explained. Draco was not entirely convinced it hadn’t come like that. 

They huddled into Molly’s bed and closed the curtains to watch a muggle movie. The rest of their year, they decided, might not be supportive of their chosen activity; Daphne Greengrass, for example, actually bought in to the whole muggles-are-scum idea championed by all of their parents. 

Draco wasn't sure if he did. But he did know that  _ The Man in the Iron Mask  _ was equal parts ridiculous and exciting. He thought it was odd that the characters spoke English even though they were supposedly in France, but what could you do? 

That was how it was done in Muggle England, he supposed. 

It was a nice evening, though, and he’d forgotten that he preferred the company of others at least occasionally. He snuck back down to the common room, wishing he had Potter’s invisibility cloak so no one would ask questions, and eventually returned to the boys dormitory. 

He considered thinking about what he should do--about his father’s task for him and his mother’s advice--but instead he fell quickly into a dreamless sleep. 

 


	20. Gainsboro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, my chapters are catching up with me so it might be a little bit before an update, but here's the next chapter!

“Ron, I told you it’s gone. Dumbledore moved it.” 

“I would’ve just liked to have seen it once more is all,” Ron replied. “It’s not every day that--well, you know.” 

Harry nodded. 

“I wonder what Dumbledore would have seen,” mused Ron. 

“I asked him that, actually. The last day I went to see it, he was there.” Harry gulped--it was a bit awkward, really.  “I asked him what he saw, and I suppose it was awfully personal because he just said he saw himself getting a pair of wool socks.”

Ron shrugged, and shoved a piece of toast in his mouth. “Maybe that’s really what he wants more than anything.” 

“I doubt it,” said Harry stubbornly. “He’s got to have been lying. Not that I blame him though.” 

“I still wanna know,” said Ron. “Plus, whaddaya think the mirror’s doing there, anyway? What’s its purpose?” 

“It’s not there anymore,” said Harry, not quite sure why they were still talking about it. It was interesting, sure, and strange, but so was everything else at Hogwarts. 

“I’ve never heard of anything like it,” said Ron, which baffled Harry as much as the mirror had baffled Ron. Everything they’d experienced so far, Ron seemed to accept as normal, even if they really were extraordinary. That the mirror was unique, as far as Ron knew, made it all the more intriguing. 

Ron’s curiosity was short lived, however, because breakfast had arrived. 

“When’s Hermione coming back, anyway?” asked Ron, more rhetorically than anything. “I thought she’d be here sooner. She likes to be prepared.” He shoveled some hash brown into his mouth. 

“Later today, I think,” said Harry, because he tended to keep track of these things. 

Ron nodded distractedly. “Whaddya say to a game of Exploding Snap?” 

They went back to the common room, and Harry was overwhelmed with the feeling of wellbeing that for him always accompanied entering the Gryffindor common room. It was warm; the fire crackled peacefully, and the upholstered chairs were soft and comfortable. He had never really understood being attached to a place until he’d come to Hogwarts.

It was remarkable, really, how easily Ron fit in here. Sometimes the warmth and wonder he felt in the Gryffindor common room made Harry worry that he didn’t really belong. 

The Sorting Hat had wanted to put him in Slytherin, after all. And despite his uneasy peace and nascent friendship with Draco, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something wrong with that entire house. 

Ron returned with his deck of cards, and jolted Harry out of his reflective mood.

“Alright there, mate?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. He appreciated that Ron never doubted it; Ron, unlike Harry, could remain entirely in the moment. And that made him wonderful to be around, because one simply had no choice but to come along for the ride. 

Harry forewent his normal choice of armchair (one of the three clustered conveniently by the hearth) and sat in one by the window. Ron had no complaints--they did need something with a table in between them to play. 

After a while, the game petered out, and they just sat there, enjoying each other’s company and staring contentedly off into space. 

“Reckon Hermione’s figured out about Nicolas Flamel?” said Ron. 

“I don’t know how she would, if she’s in vacation in the Caribbean,” said Harry. He didn’t need to mention that her family were muggles, which would only make her quest more difficult. 

“Knowing ‘Mione, she’d still figure it out,” said Ron. Harry nodded. 

After a while, Harry got up. “I think I’ll send Hagrid a note, asking to come for tea. Maybe he’ll let something slip about Fluffy at the very least, since we can’t figure out Nicolas Flamel.” 

“Right,” said Ron, and he sounded genuinely excited about the prospect. “Just maybe not for tea? If I have to pretend to chew those rock cakes again, I might die.” 

Harry laughed. The cakes were objectively terrible. 

“You should thank him for that flute, though,” said Ron, looking only a little bit sour that Harry had gotten it and not him. 

“He probably just feels bad,” said Harry, defending Hagrid, “You know, about my aunt and uncle.” 

“I’m not complaining,” said Ron, who looked as if he’d like to. “I’m still jealous about the cloak, though.” 

Harry grinned. “At least you get to use it,” he said. 

Ron grinned, the envy sliding off his face. “Owl Hagrid,” he said. 

That really was the nice thing about Ron--if you were friends, he didn’t hold these sorts of things against you. 

“Although really,” he added, “Mum had no right to give you a nicer jumper.” 

“Maroon’s not so bad,” said Harry. 

“Don’t noticing you offer to trade.” 

“Mine has an H on it,” Harry pointed out. “And yours is ugly.” 

They both laughed, and Harry went to the owelry to send a note to Hagrid. Hedwig was exuberant at the chance to go outside--it was a cold day, ice crystals clinging to the trees and the gables of the castle, but the sky was startlingly clear. 

Hedwig flew back quickly with Hagrid’s response, which suggested they come over at four. 

Harry left the owlery to tell Ron the news--the latter had opted to stay in the warmth of the common room. As he stepped towards the doorway, Draco entered. 

If Harry had been paying attention, he would have noticed that a strange array of emotions passed over Draco’s face. His default state of manufactured apathy morphed into an expression of shock (and not pleasant shock either) morphed into a gentler, albeit slightly more awkward, expression that was difficult to define. 

Harry mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a greeting. Draco nodded his head in response but couldn’t think of anything particularly relevant to say. They were friends, sort of, but their friendship consisted of chance meetings and snide comments (and the occasional hex) thrown across a hallway. 

Harry paused. “See you around then?” he half-asked, half-said. 

“Yeah,” said Draco, distracted enough (and not expecting to run into anyone, really) that his voice retained some of its default antagonism. 

Harry stepped out of the room, looking a little puzzled but not concerned, leaving Draco to send his letter alone. He hadn’t really needed to send a letter--it was just a brief note to an aunt in France whom he stayed in contact with at the insistence of his mother. It was just--as soon as he was surrounded with people, he felt the desperate need to be alone, to walk around the castle.  It made him feel rather foolish, because as soon as he was alone, he realized alone-ness didn’t make that ache less acute, so he’d just hang on the outskirts where people congregated to feel that if he wanted he could talk to someone, he was just choosing not to. 

So, he had gone to the owelry to send the stupid letter because it was a thing to do. Draco looked forward to school starting, although he’d never admit it, for the same reason. It made sense. It was busy enough to keep him un-miserable. Home was usually like that, too, with the outings and social events that he relished because his role in them was clear, and concrete. 

He lingered in the owelry, scanning the rafters for his owl. He could have called to her immediately, but he didn’t. Eventually, he caught sight of her, and made a small whistling sound to catch her attention. 

Juno was a sleek thing, all mottled grey and haughty attitude, and she stuck her neck up when she was offended. Draco did his best to not offend her. 

His mother had purchased Juno for him for his eleventh birthday, that June. She wasn’t the sort of breed that could be found in Diagon Alley; she was from somewhere in Africa, originally. Draco didn’t ask where his mother had gotten her, but he was rather fond of her. 

She ruffled her feathers at him as if encouraging him to get his act together, and give her a letter already. 

He complied, and sent her off. He didn’t linger much longer, and made his way down the winding staircase that led up to the tower of the owlery. It was a long walk to the dungeons, but he was just fine with that. 

***

Harry and Ron, finding that they had little to do before their tea with Hagrid at four, chatted about quidditch for a bit and then decided an outing was necessary. 

“Why is this a good idea again?” asked Harry. 

“It’s not,” said Ron, with a smug smile, “But Ravenclaw is the best option if we get caught.” 

“I suggested Hufflepuff,” said Harry. 

“Yeah, but are you really curious what the Hufflepuff common room looks like? I bet we could just ask, I don’t know, Justin or someone and they’d just show us in.” 

“Justin’s a prat,” said Harry. 

“Well yeah,” said Ron. “You’re missing the point. Besides--”

“I suppose not everything has to be about stopping Snape,” said Harry. 

“Exactly,” said Ron, “We’ve got to have fun sometimes, and we may as well get in our chance before Hermione comes back.” 

Harry had to agree with that point. While being friends with Hermione was certainly good for their grades, she insisted that a lot of their extra time was spent studying. And yes, that would still be true during winter break. 

“Okay,” said Ron, his face taking on the expression of a very focused 11 year old, “Hogwarts has four towers. One is blocked off for one reason or another--”

“That’s a journey for another day,” said Harry, breaking into a smile.

“Right,” said Ron. “That leaves three. One’s for astronomy, one’s the owelry, and I think there’s a classroom attached to that one--and that leaves one more. That one’s gotta be the Ravenclaw common room.” 

“We probably should know where all the common rooms are,” said Harry, frowning. “It seems like something everyone should know.” 

“Fred and George have been inside all of them except Ravenclaw,” said Ron proudly. 

“I wonder why,” frowned Harry. Hopefully they wouldn’t have too much difficulty, with the cloak and all. 

“I want to manage  _ something _ before them,” said Ron. 

Harry put the cloak over his arm, and they left the Gryffindor common room. They’d put it on once they were closer to their goal. 

As it so happened, there was almost no one between them and the Ravenclaw tower. They arrived there after seeing only two people along the way: Neville Longbottom, who asked where they were going and looked desperately disappointed when they didn’t invite him along, and a fifth year Ravenclaw that Ron identified as Penelope Clearwater (it seemed his brother Percy had an interest in her). Ron seemed to think this was quite funny. Penelope looked quite preoccupied, however, and barely even acknowledged them as they passed. 

After what felt like 100 steps of stairs, they reached an immense looking door with a knocker shaped like an eagle. 

“That’s gotta be it,” said Harry, rather obviously. 

“We probably should’ve put the cloak on earlier,” said Ron, “There’s no explainable reason for us to be up here.” 

They put on the cloak before Harry put his hand on the knocker, and knocked it twice. It seemed like the thing to do. 

The knocker took a breath, and Harry and Ron both stepped back involuntarily. 

In a deep, very human-sounding voice, the knocker asked, “I have four fingers and a thumb, but am not alive. What am I?”

“It’s a riddle,” said Ron. “I bet I can get this.” 

Harry remained silent. 

After a good twenty seconds or so, Ron blurted out, “An inferi!” 

The knocker made a deep sighing sound. “I suppose,” it said. The large door creaked open, and Harry and Ron stepped inside. 

They remained inside the hallway in front of the common room, just to gain their bearings. They could hear  conversations from within: 

“Is Parvati coming tonight?” asked Terry, sounding just a little desperate. 

“I think so,” said Padma, Parvati’s twin sister. “I told her the answer to the riddle. She gets mad when I make her figure it out.” 

“At least this week’s riddle makes sense,” said Terry. “At least gloves exist in the muggle world; there was no way I was going to get last weeks’.” 

“Stop complaining, Cho let you in,” said Lisa, another first-year Ravenclaw. 

“Only because she was tired of the noise,” said Padma teasingly. 

“Did you just hear the door open?” said Terry. “I thought I did, and that’s why I wondered about Parvati.” 

“Sure,” said Lisa. “That’s why.” Padma snickered. 

Terry went about defending himself, and Harry and Ron exchanged a look and snuck forward. 

The Ravenclaw common room was objectively a beautiful room. Hermione would have loved it, and even Harry had to admit that it was awe-inspiring. The common room was round, and spacious; pillars extended from the floor to the ceiling, which was painted with a stunning rendition of the night sky. 

The stars even twinkled. 

The room was well lit, and warm but breezy, and the walls were covered in bookshelves. Ron’s eyes widened, and Harry smiled. He had had a similar reaction to the Gryffindor common room when he’d first set eyes on it. 

Unsure what else to do with themselves, they each claimed one of the extraordinarily comfortable chairs, and eavesdropped and looked around. 

The novelty wore off quickly though, and really there wasn’t much they could do while invisible. So only fifteen minutes later, they snuck back out. Unfortunately, Ron stubbed his toe on the foot of a chair along the way and suppressed a yelp. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to their location, but thankfully, it was clear that they couldn’t see them. 

Still, the pair held their breaths until they had crept through the corridor and back out the door. 

“That was wicked,” said Ron. 

Harry couldn’t help but agree. 

Hagrid’s was ultimately a failure.He still managed to evade their questions about Fluffy (an unusual feat, for Hagrid, considering his love of talking about his Magical Creatures), and they even had to suffer through a few rock hard pastries, before Hagrid wished them luck with starting school again and shooed them out. 

***

No one was ready to start school again come Monday, except perhaps Hermione, but there they all were, in Transfigurations anyway; McGonagall was unsympathetic to the general discontent and had them working on a new transformation. 

Harry was concentrating. More than normal, actually; he didn’t even shoot his regular furtive glances around the classroom or whisper to Ron. That, however, was partly because Hermione had sat herself in between them, tired of losing house points because of their chattering. 

Even Hermione was having trouble with this transformation of a plate into a mirror. She had gotten close, but there were little bubbles in the glass, so she kept re-attempting, muttering the incantation with increasing fervor. 

Harry’s plate didn’t budge. Most of the class was similarly frustrated. 

Harry took a breath and leaned backwards. In his moment of distraction, the plate in front of him burst into flames. Harry spun around to where Malfoy and Theodore Nott were sitting. Nott was laughing, and Malfoy was doing his utmost to look innocent. 

Harry shot him a look, and added, “Stop it,” for good measure. Malfoy, damn him, giggled. 

Harry doused the fire and attempted to stay calm, but his concentration was fractured. He tried again, and the plate cracked in half. 

Malfoy’s giggle turned into a snort, and Hermione looked sideways at Harry, realizing he was just a moment away from causing a scene. 

“Harry,” she hissed, “Let it go.” 

Harry took a breath. “Reparo,” Hermione muttered, and his plate regained its wholeness. 

“Okay,” said Harry, taking another breath. 

A fragile peace reigned over the classroom, and Professor McGonagall stopped watching them quite so keenly. Hermione managed to succeed in the transformation, much to her glee and the Slytherins’ chagrin--she gained Gryffindor 10 points, a considerable win. 

Even Ron, who normally moaned about her skill at magic and academics, seemed pleased. 

Harry’s plate turned a sickening green and hissed at him. 

“That’s it,” said Harry, turning around. Draco stood up and drew his wand, and Harry did the natural thing. He jinxed him to have Jelly-legs, and Malfoy lost his balance and practically oozed to the ground. 

Professor McGonagall flew towards them in an instant. She waved her wand, and Malfoy’s legs returned to normal functioning. 

“Potter, I’m tired of taking house points for this ridiculous behavior,” she said. “ And for Merlin’s sake, Mr. Malfoy, stop antagonizing him. Detention, both of you, and you will join me tonight at six. I expect better from the both of you in the future.” 

Harry shot Draco an angry look. Draco returned it with stony indifference, and turned his attention back to the plate in front of him that they were supposed to be turning into a mirror.


	21. Tyrian

“You should have known better, Harry,” is hardly what he felt like hearing, but hear it he did. Several times. Hermione rarely understood that nagging him about it after the fact wasn’t going to change the outcome. Or even his future behavior, really. 

He nodded distractedly. 

“You always let him get on your nerves, he’s not worth it, and there’s so many other important things to be doing, like finding out about Nicolas Flamel--” 

“Alright, Hermione,” Ron interjected. “He gets it. It happened, it’s done, he has detention.”

She stopped, and looked quite upset. Ron didn’t often tell her to stop--when he did, it was usually well-deserved. (Sometimes he was just in a bad mood, but if that was the case, they just bickered about it for a few minutes and then got over it.) 

She apologized softly and looked at Harry mournfully. 

“It’s alright,” he said, a little awkwardly. But she smiled, a little ruefully at first, and things felt alright again. 

“Six o’clock, right mate?” said Ron. “Hopefully the git won’t curse you.” 

“What happens in detention anyway?” asked Harry, the thought just occurred to him that Hogwarts might have very different standards than the muggle world. 

Ron shrugged. “Depends on the teacher I suppose. Fred and George cleaned the Trophy room a couple weeks back. Snape would probably have you cleaning frog guts out of cauldrons just out of spite.” 

“Just be careful, Harry, Draco’s got a mean streak.” 

“I know that, don’t I?” said Harry, a little bit more snidely than he meant to. He sighed and added, “Oliver’s on my back about Quidditch practices anyway.” 

“You’d think McGonagall would make an exception for you, she supports the team so much,” said Ron, sounding a little proud of their Head of House. 

“I’d better go,” said Harry. Ron patted him on the back. 

“Try not to catch anything contagious from Malfoy,” said Ron. 

“I’ll do my best,” said Harry. He left some of his things by the fireplace of the common room; he’d get them after. Hopefully it didn’t take too long. 

Harry didn’t think about much as he dragged his feet in the direction of Professor McGonagall’s office. As much as he liked McGonagall, she was pretty strict. And Malfoy was 100% to blame in this instance (if not most of them). 

He got there pretty close to six (he, like some muggleborns and half-bloods, still carried an old plastic watch because frankly, it was easier than casting a tempus charm constantly). He knocked twice on the door after only a moment’s hesitation, because he figured McGonagall would take issue with his lateness. 

“Come in, Potter,” came her voice from beyond the oak door. The door creaked open itself, and he stepped carefully inside, closing the door carefully behind him. He stood by the door. Malfoy was already sitting in a chair facing McGonagall’s desk, and he didn’t turn around or otherwise acknowledge Harry’s presence. 

“Sit.” There was a chair next to Malfoy. So, he sat, shooting a glance towards the boy, who seemed mysteriously quiet, and, for once, uncomplaining. 

Once Harry sat, their professor did so, too. Her face was calm but her hands were agitated, and she took a breath as if collecting her thoughts. 

Finally, she spoke. “Mr. Malfoy, can you tell me how long it is that you’ll be at Hogwarts?” 

“Seven years,” he said sullenly. 

“Correct,” she said, “and how long have the two have you been here, Potter?” 

“Four months,” said Harry, after just a moment’s pause. 

“Yes. And in four months,” she said, standing and starting to pace, “you two have managed to antagonize, cause havoc, and generally annoy each other and your teachers.” 

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but McGonagall held up her hand. “You’ll have a chance to say your piece, this is mine.” 

She continued. “The house system is designed for some healthy competition and so that you have a family here at Hogwarts. It is not meant to promote antagonism or hatred or bullying.” 

She turned towards Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, the first years in your house look up to you. Some even imitate your behavior. That you bother Mr. Potter, going so far to interfere with his studies and hex him in between class--” 

Draco opened his mouth, “I didn’t--”

“Mr. Malfoy, silence. Your father may be on the board of directors but that does not excuse you from the consequences of your actions. And you have hexed Potter, Longbottom, and quite a few muggleborns that have come complaining to me. And you have avoided any repercussions because it is hard to prove, but I am telling you from now on it is simply unacceptable. I’ve spoken to Professor Snape, and the next time something like this happens, you will lose privileges.” 

Draco was eerily quiet. 

“Am I clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” he said in a voice that was uncharacteristically small. 

“And Mr. Potter,” she continued, apparently feeling that Draco was sufficiently chastised, “Mr. Malfoy’s terrible behavior does not in any way excuse yours. You responded to a petty annoyance with a hex, and that is quite unacceptable. You, like Mr. Malfoy, are respected in your house and you should set an example for how to behave. What I saw today was not the sort of behavior I expect from you.You are building friendships that will last you seven years, if not more. Learn to keep your temper.” 

Harry couldn’t help thinking it was at least a little unfair. He hadn’t started it. Malfoy had started it,since the beginning, since the first day of school and then later when he stole Neville’s Remembrall-- Harry had just been reacting. 

“Anything to say for yourselves?” she said, looking down severely at them. 

They remained silent. 

“You will be serving detention cleaning the store room. I suggest that while you work, you figure out some sort of agreement so this nonsense ends. And believe me, if you cause a ruckus, I will know.” 

She waved them off towards the nearby transfiguration storeroom, and made a show of collecting their wands. “You’ll get them back when you’re finished,” she warned. “If you manage not to injure each other.” 

That was relatively good motivation to make peace. (But that was no guarantee it would be easy). 

As soon as McGonagall had left, Harry spoke. “Why did you do that? I thought we had a truce?” 

Draco shrugged. He could feel the anger and frustration running through him again, and he wanted to explain,  _ This is who I am, I can’t help it,  _ but instead he didn’t say anything. 

“Do you like getting on my nerves or something?” asked Harry. 

Draco let a small smirk take over his face. “It is very easy,” he said. 

“It’s not that easy,” protested Harry. 

“Fairly easy.” 

“Why do you like being disagreeable?” asked Harry. “You’re annoying, sure, but you’re not that bad when you’re normal--but then it’s like you get this idea in your head that you  _ have  _ to piss someone off.” 

“You don’t have to get it,” said Draco. 

Draco wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but Harry letting out an undignified chortle was definitely not it. 

“What,” said Draco, already prepared to be offended. 

“This isn’t going to make sense to you, because you’ve never been in the muggle world, but at school, there are these cliques. Nerds will hang out with the nerds, people who play in band hang out in a certain hallway at lunch, stuff like that.” 

“It’s like that here too,” said Draco, still wary. 

“Yeah, well, at my last school there was a group of six or eight people that would hang out and all wear black and complain about how no one understood what they were going through. People made fun of them for it, but I just had this image of you fitting right in.” 

“I don’t wear all black,” said Draco. 

“I bet you would in the Muggle world,” said Harry. “Just to be special.” 

Draco sniffed to indicate just how offended he was by that comment.

“Listen though,” said Harry, “I don’t know why you want to bother me all the time, and I don’t know why you’re downright mean to people when you don’t have to be.” 

Draco put down the stack of things he was organizing. He wanted to say something, something that would make it right--to say “it’s all I know,” or to promise that he’d do better, but he couldn’t. He’d promise and then the next time he’d get angry, he’d jinx Weasley, or trip Longbottom, or embarrass Daphne Greengrass (who Pansy said had a crush on him). 

He wanted to blame his father, or to justify it, but really, it came down the the fact he wasn’t all that good of a person, and he was a Malfoy, a Slytherin--he was exactly what everyone expected him to be. 

“I can’t explain,” he said stiffly. 

“Just do me a favor,” said Harry. “When you’re mean to people, pick on people that don’t care. Not people like Neville or Hermione.” 

“Does that mean you don’t care then? You’re the big hero, don’t care what everyone says about you?” 

“Forget it, then,” said Harry, letting out an exasperated breath. 

“I want to, I just can’t,” snapped Draco. 

“I don’t think pretending to be rivals is a good idea,” said Harry. 

“Okay,” said Draco. 

“But if we’re proper friends, you have to leave my friends alone. And if you can’t do that, then I’d be an awful friend to them for putting up with you.” 

“Okay,” said Draco, again, feeling vaguely as if something was going horribly, horribly wrong, but that nothing he could say would fix it. 

“Wait,” said Draco. 

“I can’t exactly leave,” said Harry, “McGonagall’s made sure of that.” 

“Do they care what I say about them?” 

“Who?” 

“Granger, and Longbottom,” said Draco. 

“Look,” said Harry, still clearly a bit frustrated, “You call Hermione bloody awful names to make her feel small. And you’re surprised that you’re successful?”

“I--” 

“And Longbottom. Don’t you think he has enough trouble with everything without you telling him how terrible he is? He’s not stupid, you know, at least not like people think, but everyone tells him he’s stupid so he’s so scared of messing up that he really does do badly.” 

“That’s a pretty in-depth explanation,” said Draco. “Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “That’s what Hermione says. She’s smart, you know, no matter what you think.”

“I know she’s smart,” said Draco. “Just a bit… much.” 

“You have that in common,” said Harry. 

There was a pause in their conversation and they both went back to shifting piles of god-knows-what into slightly more organized piles. 

“I’m trying,” said Draco, “I know I’m terrible, but I’m trying to be different. I just don’t seem to be very good at it, and,” he took a breath, “Don’t say anything in return to that because I’m doing my best to pretend I never said it.” 

Harry nodded, and if Draco had been looking, he would have noticed a small smile on Harry’s face.


	22. Author's Note

 

Hey guys, so I'm a shitty human being with absolutely no motivation... and I don't know how many people are actually invested in this fic. But I'm posting here because one of my closest friends really could use your help:

 [My friend's gofundmepage](https://www.gofundme.com/silas039-top-surgery-fund)

 

Even if you can share it, that's great, but I'll post a chapter for every $20 someone from a03 donates (and there's no reason to think that would motivate y'all, but who knows ^_^ ) . If you donate, let me know in the comments! 

Edit: as of 10/8/18, we've raised $20 and Chapter 23 will be posted by 10/10/18.


	23. Ochre

Lucius paced. Narcissa was out on some errands, and he had ordered the house elves to leave him to his devices. But his office seemed too small, and the enormity of what he had to do loomed. 

The Dark Lord’s followers had dwindled in the past eleven years. Remaining were those who were vicious for the sake of viciousness, not those who believed truly in the cause. And Lucius himself was beginning to doubt all of what he’d done to keep the movement, well, moving. It was too late to turn back, though. He had convinced the other Death Eaters that the Dark Lord’s return to power was assured if only they followed his instructions. His work had even frightened some wayward families back into line with whispers of the Dark Lord’s ascendancy. 

He wondered who he could count among his loyal. Well, not  _ his, _ to be exact, but the Dark Lord’s past following, those that would obey Lucius’s orders if they thought he was the mouthpiece of someone greater. He wondered if Snape was still on his side. 

If Lucius could wish for one ally, it would be Severus Snape. He was among the men protecting it, protecting the stone, and while he had Quirrell as well, Lucius simply couldn’t trust the latter’s competency. 

Besides, while Quirrell had let the troll in during Halloween, he had failed to do anything else useful. Lucius suspected that the man needed a hearty dose of fear to motivate his behavior, and it was much easier to intimidate his own eleven year old than a professor of defense against the dark arts, as useless as Quirrell might be. 

If Lucius was honest with himself (which he rarely was), he would have said that he was exhausted. He was angry and purposeless and too tired to think straight. He needed what Dumbledore was hiding. He needed Draco to find it. And if he was more honest with himself than he’d ever been, he would have known that what he was asking of his son signaled how desperate he truly was. 

If Lucius truly had the Dark Lord’s power behind him, Quirrell would listen. Whatever artifact was in the third floor would be theirs already. He was losing momentum; Quirrell was no longer responding to his owls, and Draco was probably incompetent. 

But Lucius was not thinking of any of this, because Lucius was, at heart, a coward. He had spent his entire life hidden behind great men, pretending that it was his own actions that made greatness possible. Such a man could not face the consequences of his decisions. 

Such a man could not even face his wife. 

And so when he heard the door to the manor open; when he heard the echo of her heeled shoes tap on the tile floor, he shut the door to his study and locked it. 

He listened for her careful footsteps on the Grand staircase. She passed by the bedroom, not even pausing to put down whatever she was carrying, and knocked on the door to his study. 

“Not now, Narcissa,” he called through the door. 

“Yes,” she said. “It will be now, Lucius.” 

Rarely was her voice so steadfast. She was not a weak woman, but she rarely went against his wishes so forcefully. He did not reply. 

“You can’t avoid me for long,” said Narcissa. 

“I can try,” mumbled Lucius--but he did not say that loudly enough for her to hear. He sat down at the desk of his study, and waved his wand for the door to open--she could have done it herself but he supposed it was the last mark of her respect that she did not. 

“We need to talk,” said Narcissa. Aristocratically as ever, but with anger brewing in her eyes, she walked to sit across from him at his desk. 

Lucius nodded once, and decided to reserve his fear for later--once he knew what she was referring to. He had prepared for this moment, much as he had wished it would not come. 

He expected her to know it all--his secret, that the Dark Lord really was dead and the last eleven years had been a farce that Lucius had created to keep some vestige of power. But what she said next led him to believe that all was not lost. 

“You have done something to Draco,” she said simply. 

They remained silent a moment. He could not think of what to say. 

“What have you asked of him?” she said. 

Lucius considered a moment. Bringing the Dark Lord into this might be pushing his luck. So, he began in another way. 

“Draco lacks discipline,” he said. “He is bright, and has much potential, but he cares too much about many things that are simply not relevant.”

Narcissa raised her eyebrows. “Like?”

“What people think of him. And he questions my orders, our authority. This year I have been hard on him, but only because it will make him better.” 

She shook her head. “Not good enough. Not even true. What could you possibly need from an eleven year old boy that is causing you to behave so badly?”

“If you knew what I was dealing with--” he began. 

“Then tell me! What has the Dark Lord asked of you? I will do it--but I will not let you drag Draco into this, he is a boy!”

Lucius sighed--not of despair or resolve, anymore--this time of relief. “You have guessed, then.” If Narcissa did not yet question the charade, then she could be convinced why he needed the artifact. 

He began. “I have information that Dumbledore is hiding something in the castle that the Dark Lord needs. We have another ally there, but he has failed us and the Dark Lord is angry. If Draco finds the artifact, then our problems are solved.”

“This artifact is undoubtedly guarded, Lucius, how could you ask your only son to search for it? To endanger himself? And to give him such a task when he surely will fail? The letter we got from Severus, surely that is enough to convince you that he is not capable, and that he will endanger himself if he tries?”

“Narcissa,” he said simply. “I do not want to ask this of Draco. But it is our only hope.” 

She recoiled from him slightly as he tried to take her hand. 

“Find another way, Lucius. If the Dark Lord has given you this task, he will not be pleased that you have given it to Draco.” 

“I know,” he said softly, and he let the desperation and fear he felt be true, even if its source she could not know.

She closed the door to the study gently behind her. There was no need for anger, or idle threats. She had made her point, and Lucius again wondered if she would stay if she knew what he had done. 

***

Hedwig fluttered down to Harry. He knew her well enough to say she looked a little miffed. 

She dropped the tightly folded note clutched between her talons squarely onto his palm and climbed up to his shoulder, staring haughtily away from him. Harry would have been amused had he not been so curious. 

The letter read, “Come to the Owlery.” That was it. No signature, no greeting. The handwriting was messy, the paper expensive. 

“What is it?” asked Ron. They were walking back from Hagrid’s house after sharing some significantly unappetizing tea and rock cakes. Ron was in a bad mood, lately--many were between the weather and an obnoxiously long potions assignment. 

“I dunno,” said Harry. “It says to go to the Owlery.” 

“Let’s go then,” said Ron, both wonderfully oblivious and supportive. “Maybe it’s a trap.” Such a prospect was to him sounded exciting rather than worrying to him. 

“I doubt it,” replied Harry, and Ron rolled his eyes as if anything less than a duel was impossible. 

While the brevity of the note did suggest urgency, it did not occur to Harry that his friend’s presence might not be desired, until they reached the last few steps of the tower. 

“Umm,” said Harry, when it dawned on him that the letter was for Harry himself, not Harry and his inseparable redheaded friend. He thought about saying something, but he wasn’t all that sure what the letter was about, after all, and he may as well just--

He pushed open the heavy wooden door and scraped his boots on the door jam. The Owlery, like always, was  a good deal warmer than outside despite its immense open windows for the birds to fly in and out. It was a particularly cold day. 

Draco stood by one of the tall windows, his cheeks red from the cold and his fingers clenched around a note of his own. He glanced over at Harry when he walked in, but physically withdrew when he saw the boy that followed. 

“Malfoy,” said Ron. Mercifully, he did not yell, but he spoke loudly enough for both boys to hear him--it was not a friendly greeting. He stowed his right hand into his robes, and Harry knew that he was clutching his wand. 

“Ron,” said Harry, “it’s fine. He’s not--it’s fine.” There was a long silence that followed. Ron looked at him in shock, and Harry felt as if he had to explain more, he should explain more, but what was there to say? That they were friends? Were they? Would Ron forgive that? He had more reason than most to hate the Malfoys, Draco included, and, all at once, Harry realized that he felt guilty. 

He hadn’t told Ron about their friendship for a reason, but he still wasn’t sure what. Hermione would know, or Luna, but neither were here--it was just him and Ron and Malfoy--Draco, and no real way to explain himself even though a part of him felt that he shouldn’t have to. 

Draco stepped forward, and for a moment it seemed as if he had something genuine and important to say, but instead he began walking for the door. As he left, he muttered, “I got good news. I can’t tell you what it is anyway.” 

He stuffed the letter in his coat and passed Harry and Ron out of the Owlery. 

Ron waited a safe few seconds, and turned to Harry. “Now what was that about?” 

***

Draco walked into the Slytherin common room at precisely 3 minutes past 4. If anyone had stopped him to notice, he was shaking and his eyes were glazed. But for the first time that year, it was not from fear. It was not from terror, or anxiety, or the panic attacks that gripped him when he woke up at night. He simply wasn’t sure what to do. 

He brushed his hand up against the letter in his pocket, just to make sure it existed. It was still there. Crumpled but complete. 

He tore his way up the stairs of the Common room to the boys dormitory, and as soon as he was safe in the bathroom, he threw up everything he had eaten that day. 

When his nausea subsided, he pulled himself up, and for what felt like the first time in almost a year, despite his incorrigible vanity, Draco looked in the mirror and truly saw what he looked like. 

Pale as death, and with a gauntness to match, he had dark purple bags under his eyes. His hair was perfectly in place but lifeless. He was lifeless. This year, he had grown almost three inches and still lost weight. 

He clutched the paper in his pocket, and took it out to read it again. 

“I have found other solutions to our problem,” it read. “Focus on your school work, and stay out of trouble.” It was signed LM; it was in his father’s handwriting, and as far as Draco Malfoy was concerned, his terrible ordeal was over. 

Dear Reader, he was wrong--but for the moment, and for the first time in the longest time, he could breathe freely and unafraid. 

He showered, changed his clothes, and went promptly down the the Common Room in search of Pansy. 

“Let’s eat,” he said. 

“I could eat,” said Pansy. “But wait.” She looked at him once over. “You’re smiling.”

“No I’m not,” he said, and instantly pulled his face into a pout. 

“You are,” she said. 

He smirked, just a little; she laughed, and they went down to the Great Hall in time for dinner. 

  
  



End file.
